to the excess,
remind me
of chocolate shavings
laughing atop
a smudged glass
of cold almond milk.

one day,
ice cubes melt.

it was never your call,
nor was it mine.

but gracelessly,
they disappear

while milk and glass
noisily touch.

in sweltered haste,
hot commutes
persuade me
that black ironed blazers
cropped sweaters
with wide, elbowed holes

were never your call,
but always were they mine.

each day,
bad tans peel.


2 thoughts on “Julys

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