the nonchalance of a fall to be,
subject to summer time exhilaration,
and that same old wrinkles etched
into the pages and pages of
a photograph yet to be forgotten.
a lazy bliss so still but
the sort of numbing, deafening
of a love to be, a love to not;
why the ivies cling, i'll never say
but the unrecognized pride that'll never die
i laugh, i laugh, i do.
rest in peace, memorandum,
and in all your pretty black & white
polaroids of vermilion sweet, i do.
