You called it your dried salt cod,
and we laughed,
remembering Shakespeare and Milton
and all the crudities of being eighteen.
Strip lights on the ceiling
and the subliminal buzz
and windows wide as our ambitions.
And over coffee
you pinched a petal from the tulip
that stood at centre stage,
and dropped it from your fingertips.
And then your laugh stuttered a little.
And slipped.
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