The sad, sad strangeness of you lingers.
I feel your little fingers.
They quieted this crevice of the sidewalk;
quieted the din of spit out songs
and the sinking clinking of our drinking.
Here's your unfinished drink
and a cigarette you rolled
looking like nothing so much
as an angel lost in a Warhol film.
Lucky glass;
how unfair
something unaware
kissed you goodbye.
The sad, sad strangeness of you lingers,
returns though you do not.
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