fare

regrets and disillusionment mean nothing to me; they are a want forgotten.

a taxi pulls up outside the house. it, in its own ridiculous, pertinent way, is exactly what i talk of. it is desire arriving with the gentle crescendo of pitch.

i hear it, alert.

perhaps it is an old lover, i think: mistaken and apologetic, knocking at my door to seek reconciliation, friendship and physical warmth.

 

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