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To be honest I was thinking masks.

We’re not getting any younger, aren’t we?

And as fat & dry as that means we

should be so glad & lucky, to not be

so afraid of every kind of minute, every ask.


In the end it’s always a guess,

that there’s usually nothing here

to be jealous of, no queer

revelation that the dull days spent near

this faint flow of decency is our last.


What I’d give to steal

even a sliver of that thin blue line

unmemorable moment, and it was, wasn’t it? You

kept a journal of bad lines through

the summer, so pathetic, so real.


Light dizzy warm lack of breath

reduced after years to just the lack

and this is victory, survival, a crack

in our small shells, like when you were happy I was back

once, and then distant, and then death.

 Max Cohen

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