west coast farewell

he put his boots on and walked out the door

unconcerned by the night streets

christened with the blood of youth

he was three years past his prime in naïve eyes

hiding in the exterior of holiness

his nostrils inflamed, he shook

and the earth moved

it does not matter     not now

sunday was the last day of tired childhood

torn by the thorns at my brow

he said, just speak once and i’ll…nevermind

still there are bruises on my back porch

he needed to find the meaning in something

than mere philosophy

i strolled outside, naked and barefoot

now this shirt that he wore sticks

to my sweaty skin

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