by Adam Sifre
The look that warms.
The strange gravity that pulls stray thoughts into tight little orbits,
around memories of you
The wine-tinged evenings and long goodnights.
These things I crave, even when I forget.
Even as I sleep.
The narrow bridge from then to now,
spans a vast abyss of trinkets,
a life nearly choked with consolation prizes.
I sift through them all, searching for gold,
finding moments with you.
These I crave.
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When you're writing, there is a place where love, sadness and hunger become indistinuishable.