Years and Years

Years and Years

Doesn’t feel like years have passed
Since I’ve seen you last
Yet there you are

In between streets
Running in the urban dark
In between backlight of
Dim, orange street lamps
Like you’re the dark
Pupil of an haggard iris
With a backpack
Full of [bronze piano wire]

Your hair is blonde now
Your hands are cold
Uncovered by gloves
Or something warm to hold

Besides your tools
And your devices
Found from drifting

Up late nights
Like you have

Insomnia brackets

In the core
Of your distinct

With a weathered hoodie on
And joy ride jeans
Covering the jaunt
From infrequent rain

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