Our Old PlaceA Poem by Nicole SiciThe cafe on 36th and 3rd, boarded up like a haunted house It's been 12 years and I know you are holding somebody else like a cross in the dark tonight. but I still trace the cracks in the windows and look for you. Like maybe, we are still 15 eating french fries and Not knowing that we'd make it three years -- digging records out of yard sale boxes, chewing on our own heartbeats, sleeping in the Long Island Sand And one day, like most people, we would hurt each other. We'd tear the bark off our own hearts Try to heal like broken bones (never the same) We are old friends now Who walk long distance landlines like tightropes and mail bullshit Christmas Cards six weeks too late every year Ben, just so you know,
They still haven't torn down our old place. I can still smell the french fries -- (I can still feel your heartbeat, and mine) (I can still hear the records) (I can still taste the sea salt) --I'll write to you about it next year, sometime in January © 2017 Nicole SiciAuthor's Note
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Added on October 24, 2017Last Updated on October 24, 2017 AuthorNicole SiciNew York City , NYAboutAvid traveler, corporate slave and professional napper here to share little projects in the hopes that I can connect with other writers and learn more about their work and process. more..Writing
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