2 pm in your kitchen looks like a polaroid
you with your ripped t- shirt
and irish coffee in hand
your prescription for killing time
is reading poetic conversations
from an unknown teenage poet's hands
beneath your peeling wallpaper
evening adjourns and we'll crash
on your vintage velvet couch
and steep our conversations in our
agreed upon drink, whiskey
we'll chase the day into darkness
and sip until the moon is a slice
of orange drowsy in our eyes
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