the two am hour and we're tipsy
and our front gate click
is a puzzle
it's getting late and tomorrow
is linking us to a corner
nook
when we were younger
and the night devoured our passion
but now youth has vanished
and the moon is smiling
orange
as it memorizes us
a scratched 45 vinyl record
stuck between grooves and
being bounced like the
sprout of salad leaves in summer rain
the arm of the needle has
five more memories to go
before it drags us to rest
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