I wish to write of romance,
but I find no chance.

Beautiful it could be, but of flowers,
would remind me of my past lovers.
I stop as soon as I start,
drawning in memories of my first.
The way she kiss,
sure that I miss.
Her catwalk,
not what I wish to talk.

Perhaps I should write about us,
and forget about cars.
What are we but dust,
manipulating words to make it art.
I guess that is my first,
a factitious way to forget my past.
Will that really work?
maybe, but it’s my first mark.

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