Sunday, March 28, 2010

for the boy who called me impeccable in 1997

"good day, sir - what is my fortune?"
and you would flash me your signature
gothic [endearing] grin and look over your
tarot cards and I would stand there believing
that you believed in them with all your being
and that passion amazed and frightened me -
then you would write on some scrap
that my fashion sense was impeccable and how
you enjoyed my poetry so much and I thought
that if this wasn't 1997 I might have loved you
though I wasn't sure what impeccable meant -

what a shame we barely spoke before june

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