Archaeology

it is the days
when the sun slaps down
on glossy
perspiring bodies
that my thoughts
exhume you.
i know
i should forget,
but how often
do you come across
a lad
with indigo eyes,
born with a pen
in his hands?
i refuse to allow myself
to bury you
completely,
therefore
my shovel
will always
point
to you.





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