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Literature Text
One month to the day,
that you said you’ll never change,
But as always your promises turn out to be lies.
Walking through the sewers of my broken heart,
see this place, rotten and fallen apart,
this place wasn’t supposed to be this dark.
You and me we used to talk,
in this secret place in the depths of my heart,
where the river floats out towards the dark.
A river once so blue and clear,
but now this seems to disappear,
The river now is nothing but,
acid of sour and venom so bittersweet.
This river where we used to walk,
this river that floats out to the pier,
where the paper boats disappear.
Me, I try to send this note,
float it like a paper boat.
But paper sinks,
and words are weak.
I try,
but I don’t speak.
that you said you’ll never change,
But as always your promises turn out to be lies.
Walking through the sewers of my broken heart,
see this place, rotten and fallen apart,
this place wasn’t supposed to be this dark.
You and me we used to talk,
in this secret place in the depths of my heart,
where the river floats out towards the dark.
A river once so blue and clear,
but now this seems to disappear,
The river now is nothing but,
acid of sour and venom so bittersweet.
This river where we used to walk,
this river that floats out to the pier,
where the paper boats disappear.
Me, I try to send this note,
float it like a paper boat.
But paper sinks,
and words are weak.
I try,
but I don’t speak.
Literature
affection drive
If I recycled
the love littered at your feet
hearts would starve no more.
Literature
gestalt
I hope this is more than inebriated romance.
I watch you in the diner.
I'm always watching, through mirrors, through doorways, seeing you and seeing me and knowing we're reflections of the same hypocrisy; I'm outside the television, this tellingvision, I'm disconnected, broken, the nerve between me and the rest of existence is strained and I see beyond your charades. I'm on the outside of the window, our interactions are equivocal, ambiguous, filtered and muted. My reality is a drunk prism, and your reality is an insane labyrinth of pattern, schedule, and bullshit.
The coffee at dinner makes remnants of the vodka at breakfast taste l
Literature
I have loved you...
---
part I.
In another time, I may have been your late night
confessionary, a Parisian whore to your
gentle hands and overwhelming needs. I could see us
touching, desperately
touching
loving each other without knowing names.
We are at times both romantic enough, and tragic
enough, for that.
And if I was not full of sin enough
to beckon your fingers to my skin, perhaps I
was only a girl you met for
un café au lait. You laid
your hand over mine beneath autumnal arbres, and we
made small talk about the world. Perhaps;
we are masters at making love with strangers. And you
and I
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I feel like this, these days...