Retrospection

“I’m young. Relatively, that is. And she’s younger, and I feel so stupid doing this. But because I have such an insufferable need to do well in school, I never pass up the chance for extra credits. So here I am, on this bench, asking questions and taking notes with my notebook. I’m fifteen, and she’s five.”

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Routine

“Yes. I am possessive like that. I like routine. And between us, routine is what we have. Routine is all we have”

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Home

“Home no longer exists. At least, not in tangible form… Yet, I linger. Like a fool. Like a sage. Where the stars and the sun and the flowers belong. Where my heart is buried among the roots. As a memento. As a compass”

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Hi, Wilson

“And that’s it. That’s how you know. You know, because the identification code tattooed across your chest begins to look a lot less like a bunch of alphabets and numbers strung together, and a lot more like a single coherent word.”

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It’s a rhetorical question

“I know what you’re going to ask me when I hear what sounds like Mozart pressing on piano keys for the first time – slow, uncertain, out of beat. Then, falling into rhythm, into erratic genius, announcing the reign of wind and mist and fog as they descend upon us like a cloudy dreamland – the good and the bad kind”

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End.

A minimalist poem about the end and the beginning, in six words and three seconds.

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