veinte

Thoughts and dreams so hackneyed;
Tumbleweed drifting across the
Dark, black tarmac
Settling, finally, on the palpable
Heat of the desert grains

Crystals of perspiration,
Of the freshest variety,
Trickling slowly
down
The nape of her neck,
The curve of her spine

Two decades on
And I still edge gingerly
Around the weeping date palm

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About peanutt

Writing is like breathing; I live, I love, I write.
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