I see you
Sitting at the table across the patio
Air fresh with petrichor
And the curve of your thigh where
The cut of your running shorts creeps up
The thought of my hand on the bristle of your undercut
Your bassoonist’s chin

Ah!
All I can do is
Lift the amber ale to my hairy lips
Wipe the foam away
Wondering what might have been
We’re I other than I am
And you perhaps than you–
But I will never know so much
And I don’t know if I regret it

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