I peeled the skin off my lips and ran my tongue across them. Pressed finger tips to bloody lips. Taste and see.
New skin, fresh start.
I peeled the skin off my lips and ran my tongue across them. Pressed finger tips to bloody lips. Taste and see.
New skin, fresh start.
I left, sauntered on the cold street, warm from incense and art. We met at the street corner; perfect timing, perfect kiss.
I’ll drink to la fin du monde with you any night if you tolerate my awful French.
I fell sleep with your best friend and a polar bear dog, drunk, on the front lawn of a house that I can’t remember but I’ll never forget.
The girl of your dreams, but you left me for a metal show. Good thing I date musicians.
Ink on my skin and blood in my mouth. We improvised a slingshot out of a crutch and some bungie cords.
Broken glass precedes broken hearts.
(fast forward) It was an accident, I swear.
Early cold red morning. As the train crept in I could see my breath. Ice across the rails, ice across the bay.
Listening to that song, on the rails, over the bay, was the same satisfaction as having a hot cup of perfectly brewed Earl Grey. I always though it should be called Early Grey. Early cold red morning in my hot cup of tea.
That summer, I was single. We would get so drunk and so fucked up and lie in the hammock for hours on end.
Back and forth, back and forth, the sun and the wind and the leaves.
It was late October. Wind-whipped hair, chapped lips. You held my sandpaper skin. I zipped up my leather and stared at the sky.
Snow.
I was drunk off of your attention, and maybe merlot. (We promised to never speak of this interaction again.)
