the sky is falling

you sing me songs of february summer
and i laugh at the absurdity
because
nothing makes sense anymore
and everything

is a tune
from those long ago years
when we believed
in certainty

still
i smile and i dance
at words
spilled from
wist and sunshine

so ripe with yesterday’s
short season of naiveté

when we were young
and you were golden
and i
was just a rose

.

.

.

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