it was always fingers caressing lattice.
white and dull americana with
slow metronomes in our pockets..
pouring whiskey’d lemonade into nightly graces.

imagine the bewilderment as
a sharp pang shot through the crevices
and began a bitter ache..
a sour wherewithal growing
ardent in our breast.

we would have to bury ashes
in wet and vibrant marshes,
that much we always knew.


5 thoughts on “pangs 

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