A pinch of raw passion
A blotting droplet of first memories
A fear that each meeting elopes the previous
And a promise for our outward smiles
Cemented with truth and few lies
And why does this picture be still afresh?
Maybe a flower bloomed in the mind's cobweb
The time we speak of asks me how I feel?
I answer that I have a morning itch on the treadmill
I walked for miles but the milieu has stood still.
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