I slink out of a familiar bed at four in the morning. I dress in pauldrons and greaves made of unapologetics. I kiss my bruised and half-broken lover with an affection of re-lived memories.
I get in my car and drive for an hour. Past empty carrot fields and silent bridges. I leave a red ricepaper gift at the door of a stranger. No thanks are offered. I didn't expect any. The trip home is less than a song set on repeat. I don't remember anything by the time I'm asleep again.
11:21 p.m. - 2015-08-24
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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