by Joe Robertson
Gone are the days of innocence
where we lived our lives, no consequence
and even if they never made much sense, they were ours.
We shared split-lip cigarettes at a bus stop that even time forgets
like a Polaroid or a joke that no one gets
because they were ours and the next group will have their own.
Even the places where the young lips meet now will be new, among the grass and morning dew.
In the place that I first met you.
This place was ours.
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