Limiting existence to the thumping pulse

Limited existence to the thumping
pulse of afternoons melting into
the way of tomorrow.

Do not talk to me,
not today, not yet.
I will fail the request
most miserably.

What you lack in risk
you overcompensate with ill-fitting
clichés.

Skipping rhythms of loss and
joy. Found, by mistake, on a
Sunday eve.

I saw you before, on the day before.
I saw you before, watching your team.
I saw you before, but the shadow was a dream.

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