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a familiar little melancholy kicks in

like the last couple of puffs of a joint being passed around
a group of good friends

now it's just my turn
(nothing more, nothing less)

the tips of my fingers tingling with reality
as memories gently stir that line between the conscious
and the unconscious

like a half-remembered song
sitting somewhere between your lips
and nothing

it's as if I made eye contact with the city
for the first time
and fallen in love (again)
with its every move
its every smile

the way it sleeps

the harrowing complexities accompanying
the feeling of leaving a place
that's just started feeling like home

(daydreaming about London
in London.)

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