Poetry / What's Past Is... (August 1st poem)

What's past is past, but

every moment with you,

no matter how slight

was liquid ink - a stain

on my memory: a cigarette

run in the bony winter

just before class, a chance

meeting that brought

rushed, breathy words - that

quick exchange that started

it all. Then telepathic

messages lost in mutual passion

for words, a phone call

late at night to say

I'd meant to kiss you. In between,

a flicker elsewhere.
 

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