A tiny love story written on a Sunday.
November 10, 2019
Maybe Monday was just too crazed for something so delicate as buying flowers. You always came on a Tuesday, always bought the same bunch. Bright
Maybe Monday was just too crazed for something so delicate as buying flowers. You always came on a Tuesday, always bought the same bunch. Bright
I know rejection and judgment well I had to live with it Through all hardship The pain I carried alone The long lonely years of
Unable to tell the extravagant storyPictograms conceded the gloryThe Phoenicians roughly threw in the towelTill the Greeks decided to buy a vowel Sans Romans the
a perfect day?no guilt no feara perfect hour?no angst no shamea perfect minute?no nauseating angera perfect second?having youseeing you perfect’s illusiveillusively frailbeguilingly fragileyearning for relief,some
Notice a dead leafIt can crunchBut never squish If ever even had a wishA tree, I think it would But then againChopped up as firewood…