Thursday, May 27, 2010

The Persistence Of Memory by Annika Bergen

I miss your firework face.
I want to laugh with you,
drink you like cola in August, not caring how it burns,
sit on that old abandoned train bridge in the woods
shoulder to shoulder, t-shirts and jeans,
letting our legs dangle twenty feet above the river,
and talk poetry and immortality.

Then we're over, it's biting December,
and I'm frozen to this stone bench,
listening to sirens sear the silent night,
watching the faint glimmer of a city far away.

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