RIC Journal

the city has my marks-
like stains ;
they wont go permanently
but they fade with time.
on some days
when the weather is softer
the stains remind me of places
i have been
places that marked presence:
here is a corner in a bookstore
where I sat next to you
and read eliot’s wasteland

“and drank coffee, and talked for an hour.”
i read
you listened
time stood still.

the ashtray has the last cigarette
we smoked
its turned purple like my palor
almost all the grass we sat onhas burnt to a dull brownliked brick cakesthat were left in the shadefor too longforgotten

i want an eraser
i want to go to all the places
we went
and erase every stain
that bears our togetherness.

love is not a word
it’s not an emotive quantification
for how often
how long
you and I were etched into skin:

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