We drink to the night.
To tradition. To the lake’s
tinsel. To the goose bumps
crawling across our skin.
To the palest moon
I have ever seen.
To nostalgia.
To the tapering of trees.
To the hand’s eye.
To the constellations
which fling themselves out
across the earth’s ceiling
like a suspended dream.
To the lakeside.
To the water’s edge
lapping the shore.
To your wet, wet mouth
covering mine.
Absolving The Eye
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