"because of the hormonal imbalance you made me tear up," too.
My slumber is a storm. It is a poet with the dreams of speaking the language of the city, it is summer's footprints whitewashed off the walls, it is a concrete face and a film about incest that drags on for far too long. The light swings away from my face and I do not believe in warmth any longer. The strange shape of my soul extends its hands and memories outweigh words; the meaninglessness of lucidity opens my mouth for me, and all I can speak of is the brilliance of death. If I had piano keys for limbs, I think, then she would find it so much easier to talk to me.
The window is slowly turning different colors. Here there is a silly different something pounding in me, not possibly a heart. A heart couldn't possibly thrive in me, you see. My cheeks would be damask and perfect if I had a heart. It is promises, perhaps, tied in a tidy bundle with brown packaging string, teetering on the windowsill. Or it is a teeny tiny glowing flushing war, hanging on the window, knocking against it as a door slams.
It is sad that I don't know you anymore.
The window is slowly turning different colors. Here there is a silly different something pounding in me, not possibly a heart. A heart couldn't possibly thrive in me, you see. My cheeks would be damask and perfect if I had a heart. It is promises, perhaps, tied in a tidy bundle with brown packaging string, teetering on the windowsill. Or it is a teeny tiny glowing flushing war, hanging on the window, knocking against it as a door slams.
It is sad that I don't know you anymore.