Nostalgic Accidents

The taste of grassy shavings,

Bluest drinks with streaks of coconut.

Although you yet can't see

The growing finish tape

You feel it white as ready claws

And closing quickly.

Slip another sip.


You struggle to remember

Qualities which caught your eye

Or stirred your fantasies.

The yellow fires always die.

The bright red embers glowing

Fall to ash

And grey reality.


You missed the plane

That punches houses

Over and over again,

And yet you crave

The reckless plunge,

The mash fatality.


- 1/29/25

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