We call the night by different names though it is the same drooping moon slathered into the sky. Careless and untamed. on my knees, depraved, and shouting how could you not understand this?
lifting whiskey glass from tray, and pouring concessions, and prior arrangements over each stone, now that will only serve to batter me as I swallow myself. get through to you, I could only shout. I could only feel so exhausted by the innumerable times in which we have traversed the landscapes of a circle. The ring of a glass, maybe, or the times in which your parlance was robbed of it's intention by tongue, and stutters.
Unfold myself into the night, like paper swans, like love notes in a calm, sunken eyed stooper over fire light in the back yard, and the wafting ascension of everything you owned in it.
Maybe I over reacted, maybe an abrasive ******* like your friends say. like I believe. Maybe you made this.