A1 things at B13

every evening, he’d come around

i’d order paranthe, i’d clear the ground

he’d knock with his guitar, some energy he’d row

we’d put on a movie certain, less likely so

he’d sit cross-legged, he’d sit in my spot

beset by four pillows, set to undo the rot

and one by one, the lamps would go out

the heated nights under the moon’s cold pout

the abandoned terrace, the bustling lips

the tiny bottle, the muscular sips

my melting core, his eyes of lead

the clear-ass calling, the jumbled head

the ambitions would differ, the appetites rhyme

this racing clock, that frozen time.

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A Dollop of History

Making History Easier to Digest


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