Wednesday, March 8, 2017

bedsheets

Random rambling from crossword clues,
non-sequitur trivia,
jaded exasperation.

We grow tired of each other as I drink myself to rage,
find solace in sweet sadness,
turn down the corners of your mouth like motel bedsheets.

The rhythm of your disappointment is a metronome,
a series of drops,
blurring the ink on my skin.

No comments:

Post a Comment