Coffee and cigarettes
Minus the cigarettes
And plus more coffee. I guess.
And crisp weather
That makes my nose cold
But leaves my shoulders
Almost completely exposed.
I'm sneezing into a one hundred-year-old book
Thinking about what I'll look like
In one hundred years.
Dust in the ground
Covered in old coffee stains
Ink on my fingers
Mellow face. Same as now.
Can I not be buried on a park bench?
Can I not sleep with espresso in my system?
Must I be dust inside of this
Ever moving and never happy
Always destructive
Ground.
I'd much rather be ground coffee.
Than dust.
So I guess I'd like you to bury me in black
But sing Queen at my funeral.
And give me coffee before I go.