Days of a Calendar Document Time and Emotions?

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Some nights I get too drunk and look through old photographs,
Taking sips of whiskey each time a memory prompts nostalgic ridicule.

Some nights I come across the photograph of her
Biting the rose I stole (for her) from a street vendor in Brooklyn.

I think of how a thorn grazed the corner of her lip
And the white scratch it left stationed where a smile grows.

Like lipstick smeared on those impassioned nights;
When drinking was for amusement, an enhancement of pleasantries.

I wonder,
What she’s doing on my drunken nights-
Who’s stealing her roses in my stead?

I use the perfection imagination paints
To frolic in the petals I abscond from our memories with.

Better to forget them
Than illuminate a grave
With wilting blossoms.

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