It's Sunday, October twelfth. The kitchen sink,
still full of yesterdays memorabilia, eats
at the opaque sterility (read solitude)
of my apartment.
It now appears to me that rearranging things
does not reanimate my heart, in that department
making distinctions (read fortifying patterns)
does not appear to cleanse my soul of innate sin.
As winter is a sparkplug for a spring
in this perpetual concoction of disasters
that seems to be but annual nepotism of seasons,
i cannot wait for you in any way that matters
because waiting for you does not require reasons.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 7:30 AM UTC
It's Sunday, October twelfth. The kitchen sink,
still full of yesterdays memorabilia, eats
at the opaque sterility (read solitude)
of my apartment.
It now appears to me that rearranging things
does not reanimate my heart, in that department
making distinctions (read fortifying patterns)
does not appear to cleanse my soul of innate sin.
As winter is a sparkplug for a spring
in this perpetual concoction of disasters
that seems to be but annual nepotism of seasons,
i cannot wait for you in any way that matters
because waiting for you does not require reasons.
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