Going through the archives I found this draft of a poem to someone. It's funny how time changes the words into something else, the meaning into things we couldn't possibly see in the future. How funny it is the things we write, the things we feel and their relation to the present. Thus...a poem lost is found and what was once true is true again...
Waiting around.
Eyes closed,
just waiting
for some sound,
church bells
or cicadas
or the hiss you make
while smoking a cigarette;
I lost the poem I wrote for you.
We always lose the things
we love.
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