Sunday, December 12, 2010

you'll never grow up, or be a man.



I wake up lusting after any sense of normality. As the sheets settle, we roll off each side of the bed to the floor and are gone again. This monthly itch that inhabits us, a lamp who's shade covers a browning bulb. I  take more and more of same kinds, and fan your calling cards on my grandfather's lacquered hutch. "Come to me when you will," I murmur across cobwebs under my bed.

1 comment:

Seané Shalev said...
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