As Realists    

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Our style has the shelf-life
of dark-yellow bananas
it reeks of end
but I swallow
you clawing my back
from the quiet years,
how Stonehenge our foundation
goes, the way your look
silences rooms.
Once we were little
more than children
in the town of our births,
talking up future,
kissing in a way
that everyone                                                    
would see.

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