last thing this imagination needed

wife was talking to a friend back in Bucharest, saying how the weather’s turning to just the perfect degree for the hot wine imbibing season. Hadn’t thought of that; have had to block most stuff out anyway, but that image, that feel, the spiced scent coming from a deep mug of hot wine; inhaling, sipping, feeling the fast effects and there’s sure to be some kind of vivacity, a brand of hum, not far away. Dare not imagine skipping down the metro’s concrete stairs and walking by the pastry booths and feeling the senses go happily berserk with the merciless overload assault. Dare not let the memory instigate a storm designed to debilitate every inner ampule of contentment, though it’s already stirred those feelings I’ve not felt in years, that feeling in the gut that signifies infatuation.

 

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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