wreath in my thoughts processing too soon,
blurred photograph dreams of your soft hands on piano,
my skin tattooed with fingerprints, inked
with unknowing kisses
and I need more beers for your poem, laurel,
living in the earliest versions of love
as I play a tune behind my throat.
it sounds too much like regret;
you'd hate the music in my mouth,
melancholic laurel who loved pine
the word and its predictability
while I needed cicadas, unclothed possibilities
messy, like words scratched on a bar tab
and you'd not be exhilerated by my breath
or lemons on tongue--
you miss the sweet every time.
it seems you're supposed to mean something,
I forget exactly what
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