The smell of one city
Before it gets lost in the
Newness of another.
The nostalgia of the previous
House before it gets
Consumed by the aura of
The next.
The late night's hangover
Of a Sunday brushing its
Madness on the face of
Monday.
Failed resolutions of
This year trying to coexist
With new ones in the first
Week of next year.
Transitions are fleeting
Dungeons, where a little bit
Of both sides exists in
Peace for a brief while.
Like the warmth of palms
On one another after a
Shake-hand and the hints
Of your face on hers-
Before I kissed her.
The poems I once wrote you,
Show a way to new ones
And how I wanna write her
A hundred more now.