Look at me
looking at all of the romantics of things
my love is unusual
and i make no false statments
about my cynicism
the heart is a mouth
an open, bleeding wound
that burns on paper
and speaks in distant tongues
i break open the coded language
spread it in between my thighs
i write this to you
i wrinte it in waxing tribal beats
i write it on constellations
and moon breath
i write it on days
that have passed by without calendar aquaintence
i write to you of love
but love is a four-letter word
thickening around my insides
suffocating the most delicate of me
i would write to you of this
but i am only human
i have only blood
the city is sad in the morning
the gray forgotten fog drifting
the city is sad in the morning
i am a city
and it is always morning
It is always mourning