Jackson Bayer
Every sunlit stroll
overlooking the lake,
every bone-chilling breeze
that can only be cured
by the campfire,
every crunch
crunch
crunch
of bypassed sidewalks, and
every evening spent
bundled under a blanket,
protected from
the brisk howls outside,
though they remain,
feel a thousand miles
swept away,
and Eros’ arrow just
does not have the range.
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