We were delighting in ourselves,
In our little feats of poetry,
Romance, and love
While the world burned,
In error, confusion, and hatred
We delighted in acid and booze,
In rolling joints at midnight that worried us less
And now, we’re left with nothing,
But memories,
That tell us too little,
Of who we are,
Of who we’ve become,
Of who we’ve never wanted to be

You cannot reach heaven through your senses,
But you can smoke a cigarette on your balcony,
And remember,
That you are a man, a woman, a thing only for a moment
Or you can remember, that you are god
And this whole playground,
Was your doing

You can sell your envy to the woman who crosses you,
The people who put your many hearts to the dirt
You can beg and plead for kindness,
From the women who treat your passions with much too little twinkle
There is much cruelty in the world,
And you can’t say all of it
Familiarity breeds not contempt, but idiocy
It breeds judgment and blindness
Familiarity kills every spark within that makes us human
It clouds our stars and distorts the light,
That reminds us of divinity
Only strangers can dance in sunshine,
And make love with no care for tomorrow

Our hearts hurt to help us remember,
That our efforts at perfection are departures from love
So much for that word love,
I feel decapitated when I use it
What can words give us but simple dreams of sand?
What can my promises of love teach you?
Words only bring cotton softness to your tears,
Words only help you feel things that do not exist
We are little feathers on the cusp of a very great fire,
And all the tenderness that breeds our magic,
Will burn away to faceless ashes

Every poem leaves me only disheartened,
At how far I’ve fallen
From helping this world learn to kiss
Every poem leaves me empty in a new place,
Pondering over how I’ve failed
To bring myself to look into your eyes
You might never know me again, and I, you,
We might never meet again like we did,
Those many years ago, playing in the sand
But as the memory slowly fades into the several nights of aged rum,
I will forget you, for what you were
And maybe see you again as a new child, a woman,
Perhaps a new dream, or a cloud on a trippy morning

We are fingerprints on the glassware of temporal abstraction,
And we give ourselves much suffering,
In our ability to remember the moments,
That were never made to last

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