a wet street is not similiar to rain but it's a sign that it has rained fever's not flu but it's a sign i woke up with my hands soaked in wine and begging you two things: 1- excess 2- not going home can we have only first dates where we can always be anyone else? can we exchange habits? close my eyes between your legs i love burnt bread, black coffee and butter and swimming through time towards time like in a midnight carless highway fever's not flu; it's desire's errands it's a trip you tell no one it's a page or a screen. it's a sign, how would you describe it?
I heard the chimes of iniquitous wind rush in upon familial branches bent in the middle it sent the smallest stems adrift to spiral as lost sons and daughters captured in darkness and forced to bow before the lightning strikes of tyranny