Poetry/Prose

Huckleberry

Is Romance a right?

A privilege?

A reality or fleeting idea?

Superimposed on someone

Who happens to wear

Your kind of feremones?

Or is it a Huckleberry on a tree

With few branches to climb

And reach it only left

To marvel and sniff at it?

Because I’d like to eat these Huckleberries

For breakfast each day

For the rest of my life.

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