the flow of our over

The past does not return, nor do past loves.

They languish, slump, fall into ruts:

we try to recreate that first-time wow

but bypass that love, end up fisticuffs.

And so a river passes under our pain:

what part of us can bear to love again?

Much easier to blame, provoke insane.

Under the Pont Mirabeau flows the Seine.

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