and wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up
dressed in the clothes you weren't wearing yesterday
kinked hair spread over the pillows
like her legs on that spring
my widow
I didn't leave anything behind
but a name
and some DNA
musing over her breath
heavy on my chest
like the thoughts of yesterday
with a spine crooked
like the number five
we crawl down the street
looking for another drink
lost down the river
we drown misery
and remind ourselves
that tomorrow is another day
another wrinkle
and it's alright
Short stories, poems, among other play things. A constant work in progress. Forever changing.
