Thank you for the gift: your stale breath on my pillow after you’ve gone. What cockleburs become sweet comforts in the fresh winter parallel glow.
High brow, high tower, high people. A grass fed, half-cocked, cockamamie conjecture. 10,000 hours so I know what I’m doing. Shiny metal belt; leather hypersexual. Hints to a treasure like steam wafting to dogshit.
So you don’t love me, I asked. Welcome back to reality, she said.
I’d agree if I wasn’t trying to be right.
At least I’m self-aware.
An inexorable vivacity,
she crumbles entropy,
pauses ultimate reality,
and shakes the world.
Seconds fall loose.
Only for her,
I leave that watch
and never again let time
Lonesome, no more.
Even broken clocks Find Strength Twice a day
A serene massacre. How cute you see a tunnel of light.
The sad part about Atlas: When he shrugged, no one came to rub menthol cream over his bruised shoulder.
Gentle ambition lives among the fears of wasted breath. No sooner had I clung to this revelation than the cliff stopped abruptly at the entrance of my fall. Honestly, rude.