In the times of my fragile heart, I imagine myself at a train-stop, a faraway train-stop at 2 AM, or in a country not mine, listening to the streets and Nico, wondering when it will rain next, or one block away from here at the bar with wood panels, drinking blues on a Tuesday afternoon.
In the days after I left home, where my brothers sleep on torn couches, in paintless rooms or ripped wallpaper. The dishes there were always ***** The curtains were always closed and the living-room would be coated in darkness of day. The poor kids are fine, but so far from okay.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
In the times of my fragile heart, I imagine myself at a train-stop, a faraway train-stop at 2 AM, or in a country not mine, listening to the streets and Nico, wondering when it will rain next, or one block away from here at the bar with wood panels, drinking blues on a Tuesday afternoon.
In the days after I left home, where my brothers sleep on torn couches, in paintless rooms or ripped wallpaper. The dishes there were always ***** The curtains were always closed and the living-room would be coated in darkness of day. The poor kids are fine, but so far from okay.
No
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