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In the land of 'almosts'
The clocks move backwards.
The water is lukewarm.
We walk by the lake,
looking at a horizon
neither of us can name.

You don't know where we're going.
Neither do I.
In this land there are no maps or phone signals,
Just time.

I walk till I see a clearing in the woods
Build a house out of all our "almosts"
Here you will find me curled in the bed
making plans to move somewhere
time goes clockwise.
Where the water isn't lukewarm.

I pack my suitecases brush my hair,
But when the train whistle go off
we do not budge,
Because in the land of "almosts",
time isn't real.
We'll live and die here
legs entwined.

Someday you'll find me, burried beneath the years
cobwebs in my hair.
You'll put me out like a dusty picture
lost in box under your bed.
Perhaps you'll stroke it's yellow edges~
smile for a moment, before closing the lid.
© -vv
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