Lukewarm

Standard

Smoke veiled streets.

And people with little,

empty pockets.

Away from the encompassing noise

that growls like an angry dog –

Two people.Holding hands.

On the right – white oleander.

A river flows on the left.

Afterwards,

memory ghosts keep the heart lukewarm,

reduced to silence,

a straitjacket forbidding to move.

Just tasting your name on my tongue.

Can you hear it?

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