(no subject)

[wishiwereemo]

The wind runs through the leaves like
alcohol through my system, gin and lonely
summertime, the flavor of nostalgia:
curled smoke of incense, patterns in
cloud and thought. You are something
bright, something gleaming like a promise.
I rewrite myself with every story I type,
digital keyboard to fingertip, wrist,
shoulder, catching in my throat where
it settles, waiting for you to hear it.