Trying Not To Write About Love

In the back of the car
At night, speeding past.
My old friends the streetlights
Vanish as we approach ever
Loftier heights. I am torn between
My life in reality and the dream,
Incredible as ever: in the relative
Coolness the memory of your
Breath hot on my skin. The tiny
Hairs raise their heads to praise
The head winds. Similarly the trees
Bow and creak and your eyes,
in the dark, are closed.

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2 thoughts on “Trying Not To Write About Love

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