Lies your hopes will tell you

Infatuated by the treacle of what felt like New York in the snow, you are still a weirdness that I like but a distance I can’t grant. The difference between stagnation and my defiance for madness is travel, apparently. Happiness happens when the harp for it invites an interlude…

…or are these just lies that your hopes will tell you?

33°55′45″S 18°24′15″E

© Dylan Balkind

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