nostalgia This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

between the glass 

framed atop the nightstand,

beneath tired neon signs and

streetlights piqued at a sojourning Selene,

dance with my hand.

 

tote me, 

lens to euphoria, 

along where vision is fogged only by overcast

of cloud nine, and the concept of time's 

abstract as ankle biters on our shins.

 

where

everything is black and white 

because the world doesn't waste its light

reflecting on 

what it knows it can never get back.

 

so it cries,

and you hate umbrellas,

and so do i,

because a child at heart

knows the true fountain of youth.

 

in this moment today,

i'd be drowning in accusations of lunacy,

but with my other half, 

madness

is just frolicking in the rain.

 

until it clears the fog away,

as they wish it would with 

my glasses' supposed "rose tint,"

but they're only cleaner,

and the fog is clearer 

 

so we'll keep going... 

an automatic sliding door'd

forgo the grandeur 

of your announced arrival

theough that bell-strung entrance. 

 

modern sensors only detect

common-folk,

rendering queens no more.

 

it all makes sense.

 

and inside the store...

 

sitting on the counter:

twenty pennies-

for the thing I'll crave 

always 

second-to-most.

 

i'll go for a milkshake again

when there can be two straws.






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