Palms and Parking Lots

We were perfect once,
in history,
in memory,
in photographic proof
of when love was
more than words and letters,
more than buttons and screens.

Before all of this,
there was that.

There was skin
and lips
and hot spring rain.
among palms
and deserted parking lots,
you held my hand
and we pretended
to be grown,
played at real life
all the while
never knowing
it would only ever be a game.

It didn’t end in perfection,
but in those fleeting moments,
we were.




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