Posted on in My Creative Content, Poetry

you gift me an imitation of my father’s Parker pens

yours is blue and gold and light
his were black and gold, encased in velvet,
and heavy – like my heart at times

on an evening walk,
you ask me out on a date.
later, you carry me up three flights of stairs

& kiss my lips
and this would be the world
except, underneath it all

what lies is mortality –
anything that dies off, that wilts off,
that is blown off by the wind like a dead leaf

is hardly of interest to me anymore

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