It’ll be late, later.

 

 

It’s so late.
And I’m filled with the impassioned need
(just after eleven pm it fills me three quarters full)
to drink you from my forethoughts.

Lest I be tempted by the fucking massive,
searing yearning want,
Burning desire to just…
beat you at scrabble.

Three ciders and it’s anyone’s game,
you still taste the same.

 

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