Diversions I possess.

I can take to woe,

whirling into the childhood cove,

a plate filled with doughnuts-

never to sulk with food.

I never rest in peace but poetry

being stolidly jittery,

conjuring images of

purple sundown bliss-

too fragile to get lost in.

And I implore to offer

one simple canonic evening.

I’m rid of periwinkle

mornings floating afar,

fading away with dim,

victorian elegance and

solitude of water in wine glass

or buffet of memories to feed on.

Throughout Fridays I’ll want

to hold your hand, unlike

crumbling, fragile napkins

but precise little origami;

which draws me back–

to this trajectory stance

only a tick to claim us back.

Timing was never on my side,

receding in various pathways,

juggling out or ceasing me

while I assigned playlists to you, or

associate library smell to you.

Or while I held my breath, uptightly,

to evade images you brew.

I’ll not crave that bit,

which was hidden underneath

those graffitied pages or

stepped, torn sheets;

But would admire those shades

which the jaded skyline

hardly has known of you.

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