The fact that one house makes

you feel love

is an ancient myth. I walk

through many unlocked

doors, but if you think about

the one before, or the one after

you will be stuck in compare

and contrast literary devices

about people who know

nothing about Lit 101. Why

would it even matter? I think

of this at the corner of the highway

at Cremazie. The gas price is

insane, but we need it.

Need gas & love.

I don’t think it’s love if you

must analyze it to death.

It takes so much guts

to be vulnerable like this.

I want to tell you so much

but I stare blankly

at a screen

I would much rather

tell you in person

or in a poem

such as this one

or the one right after.

You don’t want it to end

but everything does.

What do you think?

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