What Can’t Be Polished Can Still Be Rolled in Glitter

I can see the colours leeching from these old images
flimsy and out-of-focus like half recalled visions
dog eared pages and inscrutable letters jammed
together in rough-hewn lines, hack prose and fragments
strung along into blurred impressions of those moments
never meant to be repeated but on replay forever.

Your name came out jumbled as my greetings fumble
over and around our decade of mutual anonymity
everything has changed yet it’s all the same, familiar
distance and stilted dialogue uneven and meandering
lost in our wanderings and unsure where we had begun
wisdom of the pages lost to the ages, burnt and torn away.

Stranger again, do you recall the scramble of ink you expelled
would those missives recall to you a person that you once knew?
Once our expression poured like cheap wine, long and languid
distilling a staggering confusion and shared delusion
torn corners now gathering on the cutting room floor
and you never stuttered but I always interrupted
with nothing but the reflections of a cracked mirror shard
incomplete and jagged yet brave with that unabashed front
born of the drunkenness of youth, those heady infectious days,
tingling at the base of the spine
as the mercury began to rise
adrift in the inevitable, accursed nights
and we strung out as one, joined by electric wires
and cordless land lines, whispering each other to sleep.

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