disposable

the space between my eyes or legs. so he would kiss her head and run broken fingers through her hair. stringy, shiny, and strung out across bedspreads i would never pick out. baby, it's a boring season. this time of year brings out the worst decision making processes, don't pretend, make a fashion statement out of this spoiled story, recalling hours prior.

champagne festivals. lovely and or detestable. far from cumming, black dress second skins up in flames with half cigarette illuminated shame.

you caught me.
i got caught up.

whichever your preference fancies.

not another word left to comprehend. I'll send these thoughts snail mail next time.
I'm alone again, weekend blues between the red amplified hues screaming greens in my eyes float through the heavy smoke i chain my lips to. sly moves lend themselves towards ceiling fans exasperating disguises i fathom lend me another hour or two here. i know we both know something about trust, and fear, and time i weigh against drinks i pour down my throat, in the wee morning hours. sleeping on wooden nails,

face down with this disease. sad and slow, and of course, unrequited.
hold me down.

 really. fuck it to smithereens.