The blue streets are lined
with tobacco smoke and
faded memories. You:
in a cardigan and bowtie,
some sort of grey vintage hat
(you always wore hats
back then) Me: black stockings,
black boots, strapless dress,
jean jacket, and my hair was…
red, then. You would not try
to kiss me for another six months,
but occasionally, you would let
the knuckles of your left hand
(tenderly, accidentally) graze
the knuckles of my right hand,
undoubtedly, a gesture of knowing.
We danced back to your place
on mottled cobblestones,
whiskey on our breath,
breathless, smitten, shy.

Faded memories flood
the blue streets
with tobacco smoke
and regret.

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