"what's this
a symbol of?"
he quips,
lying sticky and
naked
in my bed.
we pull from a bottle
of port aged uncapped
on my window sill,
we sip on rolled cigarettes.
i can bet,
he and i can quote
each other,
but we don't
and i am thankful.
if this were a scene in
some sepia tinged
independent first
year's trite
nostalgia inducing flick,
i'd be the first
to scoff.
.
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