Is You.

This morning, this evening, this every all time; this gin that leaves only the dried beds of limes on the tip of the counter to wilt away hours and nothing to chase thoughts of you left behind gaps between beds and white walls, vinyl lines and showers, corners just crawling with crumb-covered cowards – this nagging wrist ache still left over from break has broken or ruined enough love to take another happy white pill or late walk to stores with fresh bullet spiderwebs climbing the doors – laughing and pushing and kissing and biting, cigarettes, pot, always so inviting, this feeling that there is no way to explain how I sometimes forget to pretend I’m in pain now and nothing else matters even if it’s left out in wood windows sills and the ash from the bills we burned you burned this almost constant thrill.


~ by perfectionatrix on February 1, 2010.

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