Poem: Old pain

By: Edward J. DeSilva, Jr

pain

is different than new.

It grows more complex –
richer – with the passing
of time, like

the taste of old scotch.
It lingers on the tongue
and in the memory. Or

the smell of a well-aged cigar.
It hangs in the air, sticks
to the clothes and clings

to the hand that held
it. We held each other
too briefly.

I’ve had a lifetime
to savor the loss of you.

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