Circle back
ten or so more years and
again, we’re at the same back road.

We meet topside,
the wanderers’ path
of slow and steady passing.

In opposition,
cross-legged I sit.
Barred to establish a baseline
of familiarity;
Stout, bearable contrasts
in our
spaced-out speech.
I am void.

You’re locked in prisms,
sand, and indulgent firsts; dim bokeh.
The sting of a hard ten,
behind the last ten.

Reverberations; a life-sentence.
The fissure in my confidence,
ran home to roost.

The thrill dampened with
the full dilation
of conscience. 

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