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Hot cup of coffee,

or vat, 

or two,

when you

would walk through the door.


Shoes off,

brush speckled snow,

wash at sink 

with wooded window.


He’d wait for you.

          I’d wait too


not knowing how painfully kind were the moments we’d spend

in ways we thought would never end.


They'd build roads and byways,

sidewalks and streets across the map of my heart,

to lookouts of warm, golden rays

on even the coldest, darkest of days.


I didn’t then know.

Couldn't from there see this.

Time's best, worthy of crests.

                ...Or perhaps I did

and accordingly garbed him in just the right fit:  

If the day were his country, 

fabric red, white, and blue,

waving proudly in the breath

of your “I love you.” 


It’s Tuesday;


                     and I miss you so much.


Thanks for being here.

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