It’s this mechanical pain that I’m feeling in my left brain. Your not being here, making me feel like wandering of into the wilderness of the unknown pleasure of self. Where the hell is love when bodies stop being useful and numb tongues turn towards the sky.
As love and hatred paint the ceiling we slept under I crave the end of every season in one bottle to sail the seas of dried up passion. Wet hair and morning robes never beat the smell of fresh coffee.