27.12.21
01:04
An ominous disquiet has settled over the city, but I still picture you riding your bike through the narrow streets, breathing in the stagnant air of the neighborhood. Parked under the yellow haze of a sodium street lamp with an unlit cigarette resting between your thumb and forefinger, do you wonder how I am? Beneath these layers of blankets, with a cloud of humid warmth surrounding my being. The same as before, except this time the warmth does not lie.
But I still reach for the art that we made together, the voices replaying like a broken vintage record in my head. The words that flow out of me like poetry. I still reach for the phone underneath my pillow, wishing you'll call again, with all the wonders and desires of the world holed up in my mouth. I still reach into my heart for our tear-stained tapestry but my fingers only find loose strands of tarnished thread. We had a cat and mouse kind of love, you and I. You ran, but I wanted to eat you alive.
YOU ARE READING
words don't come that easy.
PoetryI've tried. but i've always failed to contain these thousand words in a few sentences, maybe im bad at expressing macro feelings in the few words that I'm limited to. you might think you know me enough because it's been a long time since i first wav...
