Untitled

He was the fly in my ointment,

The wrench in my works,

The sour cream on my potato,

Deliciously sour.

New guy in an old town.

Oh.

No.

I remember his old pickup,

Cowboy hat, tattoos.

Decisions. How could he choose?

Rock or blues?

Pain with a side of bliss.

What is.

This.

There are no photographs of us,

Memories to rot and rust.

Just regret – shadows of that day

I heard predator to his prey

Say

“Stay”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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