There's no fanfare in abandoned bleachers. I dig an ember out of a burned out baseball diamond. It tries to sear calloused fingers. Years of scorching tines leave nothing behind. I shake my head and let it fall from resigned hands. My wrists lack claim. My memories are besmirched with realism's grime. I've run out of bleach. I swallow a mouthful of red pills and move on. Leaving years of sunken cost romanticism behind.
10:56 p.m. - 2017-12-11
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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