Old friends.

The beads lie in the box

Strung with old elastic

And sometimes I warm them on my skin,

And sometimes they remain forgotten

The colours are now so faded

They are scuffed and dated

But they always fit my wrist

Like when we used to hold hands

Like I am fourteen, not twenty six

Before all of life began

You will always encircle

My arm, you will always enfold,

You will always be my mine

And we shall never really grow old.

The End

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