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Outskirts

They drove by in a sky-blue Volkswagen.

He wore an army-green shirt.

She sat in the passenger seat and

wore a white spaghetti-strapped dress:

at least I thought it was white

but it could have been grey.

They coasted past, blissful,

laughing at a shared joke,

as I stood on the side line, alone.

 

They drove by me again 20 years later.

 

In a 504 station wagon, this time.

He was in a dress jacket and

she wore a flowered-print dress.

At the traffic stop they exchanged glances,

fused with understanding.

It was on a different street.

Nonetheless, I was there,

once again on the periphery.

 

In the intervening years,

I too had found love, once,

or so I thought.

But with the passage of time, I knew

that life had been happening to

and not for me.

 

And now here I stand, still.

On a different edge, a different time,

enclosed by the same pressing void,

watching life pass by.

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