Almost Love
The last busker cleans coins into a sock
as we, fresh fucked,
end the weekend by walking to the bus.
We hurry slowly, your heels catching
echoes in the empty street: as we rush
to fill the last minutes with everything
we forgot to say, or could not say,
our mouths filled to the fullest sigh
of touch. What different way we move
when gripped and pulled by almost love.
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