Periodique

Already I am
destined for tears.

From the first confidences,
the gradual unravelling
of self,

to the moment
recognition dawns

with perhaps
dim reflections of strangers
in half lit shop windows,
as early evening gathers phantoms
and the fierce city night
stretches for hours.

So to the hesitancy
of your acquiesce
and the slow burning finality
of the long drive home.

And when I pass the quiet sadness
of winter trees
the wind flutes a bitter truth
and thin rain needles
start to fall
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