The Present 3/3

I live for the moment
Of a hungover Sunday morning
Waking up with my friends
In the tiny, low-ceiling flat
Falling apart around us
Or sleepily crawling under a blanket
Next to each other in bed.
Laughing about our mistakes
Our youthful antics and pains,
Reciting Chekhov lines
Singing along to records
Surrounded by smoky haze
These days could not be more perfect.
I live for the hardships and nerves,
Pushes and plans and small victories
Everything is happening
In its perfect, perfect way
And will never again
Beyond this moment
Ever be the same.


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