there are hours before bed
i think i'll turn in now instead
i think i'll burn instead

new york, you are a grim reaper. there should be a minimum age required to move to you, a number of years one must have lived to move to you, before you’re allowed to take the rest of them. new york, you kept me out until all hours and rose me from the dead each morning. jesus —now there’s a guy who knew his stuff: one resurrection was more than enough, thanks. you tell me he drank, too. was it his fault, too? new york, you are slowly killing me, but everywhere else i am already dead.

drop dead gorgeous, a girl to die for
hot headed taurus anthropomorphic ichor

"we can't keep having these conversations."

as if it is i who lies in bed beside me and talks to those girls in your phone

but he wrote a line in some novel
about love as a hair clip left behind on the dresser.
his lover coming back for it later.

i still think it could've been your bobby pin, there, on my bedside table.
however, now that i'm single,
i much prefer hair ties.

don't listen to mozart;
lacrimosa
lack any dosage:
lacrimosa
tea; no coaster:
lacrimosa
broken toaster:
lacrimosa

me?
it was bukowski
who helped me tear through life loudly
who helped my mind settle soundly
profoundly through his profundity
and, quietly, in his subtlety,
i found me