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Aug 2013
Friends like fickle timepieces,
I'm studying these circling arms.
Today we're rubbing off the gold,
we're turning pockets inside-out
as I'm peeling off your clothes.

The dandelion seeds are dancing,
tube between your teeth
lifting up the bell jar
to release the waning fumes of me.

We're disappearing
into shapeless smears on my white ceiling
I'm waking up
  to shapeless smears on my white ceiling

The dewy density of days
between our poems spoken wet and blooming
is just a thin and runny equinox
where sweet abstraction
becomes messes uncontained.
My fingertips and lungs are stained
with your stale and flavorless tepid rain;
hands still moving though I've stopped winding.

  I don't know where, I don't know why
    nostalgia shriveled up and died
now I'm just remembering.
Paris Adamson
Written by
Paris Adamson
   vircapio gale
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