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somewhere I do

honeysuckle ribbons
are wrapped
as time with string
and squeezed against a plank
of aching red
dusted hallelujahs
are buried by the post
and rusted
to the latch
just like they said

we’d never make the papers
never knew our time
would end –
struggled with the map
unspoken shame –
as day old letters
fade into the memory of a box
– and photographs
don’t hold me
quite the same

a kiss
the taste as summer
a touch the same as true
gentle eyes
were watching me –
as I was watching you
like who would know
the stories
weren’t for telling
where we’d be –
or where we started over
might be here –
you came for me

as roads to trace
from east to west –
were moved as north I took
a ticket in my pocket
found me there
let me know
if e’er the stars
are moved from where
I loved –
as honeysuckle moments
are pulling
at my hair

. . .