(no subject)
These idioms have turned sour like the lemon you squeezed over your drink on a chance afternoon to see you off, saw hope walk out the door.
Deluxe diets of top ramen and cheap romance survive effort, survive this, survive everything gracing wooden beams and wooden dreams.
This complicates last night. This complicates the night before last. This complicates fortuitous evenings spent beneath blue lights and popcorn ceilings.
Her hips don’t swivel the same, they move robotically, remotely. Anticipation hangs, the only thing to decorate sparsely cluttered shelving units.
Moving units, nothings moving. Moving units, her world’s changing. Moving units, repetition has re-circled and recycled trashy relations.
She looks at me. She looks past me. Over cheap vodka and light beer she keeps it quiet and hidden, but more-so quiet
Wheelbarrows house the garden he uprooted from her ten by ten square. It’s all the city let’s her keep these days. She pushes it around for now.
She’ll drag it about ‘til it rots, and then she’ll let it rust. She’ll tell me it’s beautiful, the way the light hits the red corrosion and for a second she sees pink.
She’s sees them, she sees nothing, she sees them, she sees everything. Lost. She mutters beneath loosely influenced lips.
"I once knew a boy with sandy blond hair whose face I could fall into and whose mouth tasted of citrus groves."
And the light is muted and her eyes are fluttering. She reclines in a chair that squeaks when she slouches. The night will go as follows.
Deluxe diets of top ramen and cheap romance survive effort, survive this, survive everything gracing wooden beams and wooden dreams.
This complicates last night. This complicates the night before last. This complicates fortuitous evenings spent beneath blue lights and popcorn ceilings.
Her hips don’t swivel the same, they move robotically, remotely. Anticipation hangs, the only thing to decorate sparsely cluttered shelving units.
Moving units, nothings moving. Moving units, her world’s changing. Moving units, repetition has re-circled and recycled trashy relations.
She looks at me. She looks past me. Over cheap vodka and light beer she keeps it quiet and hidden, but more-so quiet
Wheelbarrows house the garden he uprooted from her ten by ten square. It’s all the city let’s her keep these days. She pushes it around for now.
She’ll drag it about ‘til it rots, and then she’ll let it rust. She’ll tell me it’s beautiful, the way the light hits the red corrosion and for a second she sees pink.
She’s sees them, she sees nothing, she sees them, she sees everything. Lost. She mutters beneath loosely influenced lips.
"I once knew a boy with sandy blond hair whose face I could fall into and whose mouth tasted of citrus groves."
And the light is muted and her eyes are fluttering. She reclines in a chair that squeaks when she slouches. The night will go as follows.