A whole day stares at you, gaping maw, ready to swallow you whole but in pieces of time, a slow slither down a long gullet. The to-do list sheens with ambition, with manageable morsels of productivity and pats on the proverbial back of living up to the expectations of society. Bukowski sits in the corner behind you and just laughs.
I take a long run along the river, past the bullet marks still warm in the concrete, sun warming my skin like we hadn't loved in years. We haven't loved in years. We haven't touched since this skin looked different, since the light behind my eyes looked different, what are you saying this light has always been dimmed by its own idea of missed opportunities. He says when can I see you again and you book a ticket to the other side of the country. When it rains, it pours, and this year has tears in droves.
I'm so tired of crying, my dear, are you not?
Better then to uphold your deal with the devil;
Write like your mind is on fire,
like you haven't a heart to set aflame.
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