Lost
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
found.
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