you gift me an imitation of my father’s Parker pens

yours is blue and gold and light
his were black and gold, encased in velvet,
and heavy – like my heart at times

on an evening walk,
you ask me out on a date.
later, you carry me up three flights of stairs

& kiss my lips
and this would be the world
except, underneath it all

what lies is mortality –
anything that dies off, that wilts off,
that is blown off by the wind like a dead leaf

is hardly of interest to me anymore

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