the limestone of this tall thing is no friend of mine.
i drive as the road laid. alopecia. this city alopecia road.
the tuesday flood, brings about knee-deep waters that soon
drowns ankle-height vulnerability.
i didn't tell a soul, but i figured out the million-dollar question
over tea last friday breakfast.
my happiness is in sparse, occasional rambles and long neutral silence.
listen to etta james, coffee runs and hushed laughter.
sunday kind of love.
everything is a breeze.
love talking, and it's honey. soft. easy.
get into trouble with me and still be soft with your words.
i drive around in the storm and i,
i can't tolerate people that weighs my heart heavy any longer.
singing etta james alone in the car render me happier,
jolts of lightning and all.
a good man that never was. in the storm.
