Rainy night. Sometime in 1989. Our “Book of Saturday.”

Was it November?
Heaps of cigarette ash in the tray.

Who would believe
If I tell them now,
How we had internalized
This song already by then.
How we had the world in our fists already then,
How our fingers were crazy already by then,

And how we were Kings then,
Our quiet incriminating gaze
Turned inward already by then

Now I wake up to this Book of Saturday (click to play YouTube video)
And ask you, my Yesterday
Why won’t you talk to me?
We exchanged dreams once
Me being myself, you confident yourself
What is this now that I keep running into?
A cloud of unknowing between us
A graceless ignoring by one of us

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