Have you had enough yet, I'm afraid the answer is no
I haven't had enough yet, and what you might of said
when you weren't speaking
it must be the greater damnation of our spoiled adolescent dreaming, within
its subliminal context, your fervent silhouette still rolls in off the northern coast of Maine,
as drool dampens our physical pillow
along March's contemptuous Ides it all hits you
continues its latent deafening transfiguration
until there is nothing left but fictitious memories
of juvenescent April,
when we were fourteen
arguably knowing what love is
more than
we will ever dream
both sleeping our time off together, through frostbitten Appalachian mountain ranges
in high December,
you are not dead yet
to me you are not dead
yet,
contrarily you haven't left me alone,
in earth shattering recollections of nineteen and ninety-four,
I wanted more and more of you, and
still do, recalling your mauve sweater
worn pain drawn drearily taut round your Autumn brow
my dearest apologies, for
being too far young
to consider
how an adult might act
in your situation
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