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Love is
an old biscuit tin lid
with a painted scene
so lovely in it’s own
quaint way that you
can but smile at such
pretty panoramas
until the day comes
while wandering the
roads you drive round
one more bend and
there it is, the self
same scene exactly
as perfectly projected.

The electric jolt
of shared memory
shocks you both
into silence as
quietly, with no
apparent thought,
you reach over to
hold hands again.