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Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Bakery on the Corner

the day I stopped writing love poetry
was when they shut down that bakery
on the corner of that secluded alley
where we had fucked religiously;

where we had fucked so hard believing
we knew what the body was thinking,
and thought the sky was just a ceiling
we could touch every single evening;

breathing in burning stars in a dark sea,
breathing out low in a darkened alley
on the corner behind that pâtisserie
now closed to everything but memory

and ragged imprints to an end of an era:
palms on brickwork urgently pressing
against your scent hungrily merging
scents of fresh bread and burnt sugar,

where sounds came as easy as rhyming
comes to a mind tripping to ecstasy,
and fucking was a melody of breathing
between lungs expanding in one body.

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