it's a hard thing,
this lucid living:
sitting on a donated couch
in an already-sold house
with someone whose grave
I had just visited.
"but I've been to your
grave,"
the words unspun
from tangled teeth.
It was hard to know
just what to say;
so into the void left
by contradiction rang out
"... well, I guess...
how have you been?"
a fluorescent full moon guided {us} quilted moths. gravel crunched, nails clicked. where the wall meets the sidewalk leaked the giggle of...
a quip - the last of the rarest jokes on earth like snowfall > April showers - befell. We shared this moment the way two people watch a...
I don't care that you dreamed about me. a not-so-great man once oh-so-greatly said, "I don't think about you at all."
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