Cards are slapped down,
Hands meet over the pile,
Words that sound like hate from an outside ear,
Sound like love to me.
A flabbergasting victory,
Seldom a sorrow filled loss,
Cards coated in water,
And sauce does little to drown our smiles,
As we play over a lunch table.
From beds, to trees, to hills infested with bees,
Memories I will always hold with me,
A love language so few speak,
But it was made for you and me.
Dedicated to Olim'26
(Written circa summer 2024)
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