Thursday, November 20, 2014



So I got out my saxophone;
shiny and coarse and heavy and new

to me at least

it seemed like an old friend,
one passing down the road
one with memories, you know
the kind that last and reappear in dreams

you can't escape them

so I look at this friend
scared half to death
disheveled am I, lonesome
and scared of interaction for

an old friend is just that -
an old friend -
out of contact
out of sight

and as I gaze into the hollowness of it all
I realize old friends aren't really friends

they're just memories...

a few jazzy notes later
there's a splashing spark, and I'm

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