a quick kiss by car door,
pretty lies from parted lips,
a look too long lingered.
these acts may be more gift than vice.
we were windstorm at the door; a dry desert of dust and devils.
i have become bold despite the hitch in my side,
the limp in get up and go.
i am wearing a souvenir:
a too big jangle around boney wrist,
a prize earned from the last match between you and me.
even now before all the whims of the saints,
I can’t help but to stretch out the remnants of what passed.
how can I see these rare gestures as just another sweet sin?
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