A full plate. Steak. Cow, one might say, but flavor it, steak.
Thick. Savory drippings bleeding into grilled shrimp from the great Gulf of Mexico, where thoughts of that endless expanse smells of sweet salt and colors the sound of swelling glow, leading into a bright light of warm day. I nibble, but do not taste. Too late, I'm reminded by the lines of Bukowski.
"There are worse things than being alone. But it often takes decades to realize this. And most often, when you do, it's too late. And there's nothing worse than too late." Too late.
I've tasted none and now fully aware.
Too late.
Cow removed. Shrimp shriveled. Taste, only a faint smell of hidden possibility.
Too late.
I've spent years, misunderstood. Or perhaps fully understood as people watched the food grow cold. Idiot. What a waste. It tastes the same, with or alone. Just eat.
Too late.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
A full plate. Steak. Cow, one might say, but flavor it, steak.
Thick. Savory drippings bleeding into grilled shrimp from the great Gulf of Mexico, where thoughts of that endless expanse smells of sweet salt and colors the sound of swelling glow, leading into a bright light of warm day. I nibble, but do not taste. Too late, I'm reminded by the lines of Bukowski.
"There are worse things than being alone. But it often takes decades to realize this. And most often, when you do, it's too late. And there's nothing worse than too late." Too late.
I've tasted none and now fully aware.
Too late.
Cow removed. Shrimp shriveled. Taste, only a faint smell of hidden possibility.
Too late.
I've spent years, misunderstood. Or perhaps fully understood as people watched the food grow cold. Idiot. What a waste. It tastes the same, with or alone. Just eat.
Too late.
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