Tuesday, 14 February 2012

You probably remember it differently,
the order, the weather, the sides,
the beginning of the last forgotten argument,
the breaking point where we rid ourselves of so much, but not pride,
when we pulled apart out ears looking, for pure defendable defense,
commendable expense as I bathe my burns in butter and mutter,
loves are lost, lost, lost, lost, gone.
But you probably remember it differently,
the angle, the register, the time,
the breaking of fractious peelers,
 fingers flaking at the peak of their climb

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