I can still picture the busy shelves,
bustling with meaningless trinkets that we could buy,
the dim, flickering lights that seemed to highlight the trouble I was in, so perfectly,
as I picked up the same magazine,
the same candy bar, that had come to taste like your kiss, in my overactive imagination.
I’d run home,
treats in trembling hands,
lost to the madness of love,
presenting myself and the presents I’d found on my travels to you,
hoping that they were enough for just a little of your time.
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