Updated: Feb 6, 2023
Our beds our crowded.
Our reflections are fragile shadows.
Our lives are spent burying memories.
Our best kisses are earthquakes.
You fall or fly every second.
You sink or swim.
You lie in the bed you make.
And this, too, shall pass.
And everyone is a god damn philosopher.
(but nobody knows...)
(this is my rip on Bukowski's "quiet, clean girls in gingham dresses..." a piece of work I loved so much I needed to possess it in some vague way) (this is not an advertisement for a good man in an ol
blow me out and extinguish the moon as calloused fingers would smother a wick pull me into you in the frost of dawn and I will hide beneath you where the moon cannot find me blow me out like a candle,