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Feb 8 · 38
Yellow Boots Feb 8
I spend so much time just googling
what time it is in the city I'm in
where do I stand
what's the hidden value
of the keys being pressed
making time for
important decisions, putting out fires,
kindness, emotional intelligence
making time for
pressing keys
making time for
the hardest thing
reconciling brain halves,
showering sometimes,
moving on
a whole lot of moving on
silence is gold, intelligence shines
let the first drive at dawn be defined
by taking underdogs by the hand
Feb 8 · 44
Mexico's Poetry Café
Yellow Boots Feb 8
To humble seaweed the task
of connecting universes we carry
on our shoulders.

Demasiadas mãos ao peito
Levaram oferendas pesadas
Da tua viagem que baralhou as cartas
Nesse desgasto chamado amizade.

Cães, montes e estrelas encima
Já presenciaram ao teu encanto,
Meu lastimável desentendimento
Que menos te calavas, mais me estremecia.

A custa da confiança rechazada
O que nunca foi vai ser entregue
Às árvores, aos cães, às estrelas encima
Medicina afague minha frágil teimosia.

Não nos deixamos faltar nada
Menos que todo a palavra loucura
Nesse amor que derrumbamos a pedaços
Que nos destroçou, inconscientes da sua vulnerabilidade.

Silêncio que esconde beijos, disse Neruda,
Quebrado por tener um oceano como alivio
Um suplício aceite já sem raiva
Tu história para contar com mis palavras.
Feb 8 · 40
Yellow Boots Feb 8
the necessity of a bath
clear at certain latitudes
modest ritual, claustrophobic chore
has been lifted where all is different
has been lost weren't it for the birds
is melancholy spoils, welcome but not home

a chiasma of feral philodendron,
colibrì & golden beetles
shields the view of the bather by the moonlight
the comfort and the intensity bring back
the necessity to have taken in the past
more baths at that specific latitude
Feb 8 · 45
of unreliable houses
Yellow Boots Feb 8
They have taken the door, the bed and the light-bulbs
Free-thinkers without a cause, the rusty pipes, the pile of coins
Up and down the stairs, I'm counting what's left.
You're right at the core of everything that burst; we still have
The present tense

Daydreaming, True love waits.
In a cup, held with both hands,
in the forest, wooden liquid
confused about its purpose in your guidance.
We're out of tea and a real place to sit
There's blood in the sink, green
paint everywhere, it's in the air
It's maddening, don't breathe.

There's time in the organs of a house
the stairs, the blame,
the fear of settling down.
The life-support of a city
seeping into a room too empty
to be so full of us and of stains to clean.
They've taken away the ghost;
unburdened, we drink.

Terrible births have been poured;
kind hands take away the empty bowl.
Sep 2018 · 120
Yellow Boots Sep 2018
the surface of madness
the treasures below
ropes, ramshackle air pockets
afloat, in the autumn sun
gifts and curses are dispensed
by the change of a tide
with mourning grown heavy,
unsteadied the course
(one more farewell to bid)
coexistence of crime
fool oneself twice
for breathing underwater
is no matter for sane souls
Apr 2018 · 190
Yellow Boots Apr 2018
I left my bed that smells of you to the kindness of a stranger; your memory will be taken care of by someone who will never have to meet you, someone who is not running away.

Every place a story, the bitter sweetness of the unknown running in spirals on the palm of my hand. The whole planet, a prison of freedom, heart open to mysterious tongues, consciousness spread to embrace the winds. Borrow my eyes, bedbugs and aching heels, if you please. Hi, I'm not home, don't leave a message.
Apr 2018 · 87
Yellow Boots Apr 2018
The room is empty and white. The bed, a messed-up mattress on the floor. A few white hair, a smile crooked under that weight life spends 20 years stacking and you try to tuck away into some hidden pocket. Books, books everywhere; no toilet paper. I imagine the terrace behind the huge windows and feel slightly sick.

The room is empty and dusty. In the darkness, I can feel your dangerous eyes and thick lips everywhere. They read french poetry in this same bed before the candle burnt out and are now devouring my skin; yours, still untouched by manhood, melts away from my fingertips. I love la vie boheme.
Jan 2016 · 356
All on the ground
Yellow Boots Jan 2016
lying down
under beauty in the making

be it falling in mass
quietly stubborn

be it raining in petals
once recognizable

be it life-bringing
luscious orange drops

be it the child
of Eros and Psyche

be it me
desisting from life

be what it may, it is not spared
the comfort of kissing the ground
Jan 2016 · 498
If it was bitter
Yellow Boots Jan 2016
Like a mule
that gently learnt the art of escape
my thirst went rambling
the narrow streets
unpossessed, unfollowed
it licked the crevices
of cobblestone, the marble floors

I ****** a peach
and it was bitter
yet it's unknown, my rose,
if I chewed or spat it out.
Dec 2015 · 654
nor for the keys
Yellow Boots Dec 2015
clusters of you
in the notes that slide
from hazy fingers,
confusions inherently slow
for the skin to witness,
neck-bending sweetness
and frustration
and you
and pieces.
do we hide in the repetition
of patterns,
does it clump together,
the amalgam distilled;
there is no us, nor
for the keys, nor for the strings_
Dec 2015 · 403
the forest for the ocean
Yellow Boots Dec 2015
and then, something happened.

the cringe-worthy howl that was heard at the footstep of the hill scratched the wind and ripped the clouds open; fistfuls of rain punched their way through the currents; the bridge to the kitchen, a wooden airborne mess.

like on a sailboat in a bottle, the landscape was refracted as gloomy shades of blurred.

this wasn't the mightiest storm his sanctuary had witnessed in his 5 years of solitude. it was simply the one. he would leave first thing in the morning, under dog's weather if must be, following the signs through the broken forest.
Nov 2015 · 554
Each time I open a door
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
I can't take it being in the same city,
I say as I scratch my scalp till it bleeds,
as you, cumin-infused silent lullaby,
torturing my dreams, my wake, my morals.
We left to sift the world's full potential,
my fake healing blooming tenderly
in the arms of pirates and schizophrenics;
you gone, me happy,
glass half full of songs and thorns and zen-ness,
cozy in a home all rearranged
to the feng shui of you'll never walk in here again
so you don't see me healthy, childishly cheerful,
grown accustomed to still missing you
each time I open a door and you're not there.
Nov 2015 · 664
Lovers in the nude
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
I fill your shirt warmly
but lifting the veils of reason
we're lovers in the ****
intolerant to any lack of beauty.
Nov 2015 · 1.4k
Dirt under our fingernails
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
the dirt under our fingernails
the only treasure map we follow
of whispers that start and end
on our backs being caressed
by strangers that hide
in the folds of history
Nov 2015 · 776
Life Lessons
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
Sometimes moderation
should be taken with moderation.
Nov 2015 · 607
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
rest now
like the color of peaches
unsuitable for the table
I am swarms
can you hear my love buzz
around your pond
where you're quiet
with the frogs
Nov 2015 · 1.5k
Rainbow, family?
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
cadence is egypt
burning one more down, a thousand
neighbors stomping their youth restless
as trance music wine-making fiascos
taking the best of both worlds, leaving the rest
to figuring out, to peasants
in cities not worth bothering for
greenland will submerge them, hopefully
solar storms edit them
to new geographies of realness
and that welcome home won't be appealing
to narrow mindedness that got narrower
Rainbow is not my favorite color
Nov 2015 · 821
lust and the loss
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
kiss me now before the apoplectic
sun reaches the horizon, before
your hate for these refined garments and manners
sends you roaming the wild
land of deja-vus, before
I am not barren but narcoleptic,
sterile, fight
with me for it's been too long
since you and I were created unequal
to last or stand the loss
of one lustful moon
Nov 2015 · 404
Give us back
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
say your prayers, don't lie, don't steal
buy your ticket to the kingdom of
10 don'ts and a pat on the back
slow clap, exude sarcasm, cue black

our moral integrity passing through
refined sugar, palm oil, plastic bags,
watching ****, micro dosing, ignoring friend requests

tiny particles diluted in all
the brainwashing attempts we failed to fight
as we finance therapists, gurus, the cosmetic industry,
splurge on gym memberships

not doing enough

inventing diseases faster
than we can cure them

not doing enough

troubled but trying
unkindly to dissappear into perfection
we beg you, at the end of our wits
give back to us, give us back

organic carrots, darkness at night,
ballroom dancing on a Sunday afternoon
a river to wash our shirts
a sun to mock them

a proud uniform of humanity
harmlessly consuming
our newly-found freedom of choice
Nov 2015 · 1.4k
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
Risk or starvation
Frantic flight
Corollary drowsiness
Subversive damage
Apostrophe in motion
Between a torn, denied farewell
And the next place
You will call home.
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
The change upon us
is a smile for unsafe grounds
high pitched notes, full breath
is your blank stare to the fireworks
of a trumpet, receding control
is my spine bent
under society's chatter
a transition of priorities
that gives you nothing if you don't see me
and have to make me up in your dreams
curly haired on the pillow
good training I reckon
hands moving fast on the keyboard
change is upon us like milk teeth
rebel drums when you know I'm watching
change is good, change is
us and our love for jazz
inoculated in the wintry city
that offering too much removes all meaning
from any closed-eye song
ever staying the same.
Oct 2015 · 400
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
Change of wind
of constellations to follow
of leading notes and accents
of spices and base values
of you and me and the smile
we'll fall asleep to, tonight.
Oct 2015 · 251
Forward, towards
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
The wind of change
blows onto you
cold lungs' breath
the lake's tears
soak your thoughts
as you move towards novelty
perfectly still by the shore
that threatens to pour on you
high up against the stream
always the same and different.
Insects hurry
cautious and curious on your bare skin
and no money
could buy this freedom of spirit
no planning
could grant or foresee
this immense flow of stone and mountain
clouds and vineyards as infinite stripes
of universal energy, relentlessly
bestowed upon you by a leap of faith
as you plunge into unknown waters.
Night to solace the day,
only direction:
forward, towards.
Oct 2015 · 282
Roads, or
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
Beacons through the dark, street signs, you
our understanding holding up the stars
we sleep under, every night
intuition pulling closer each turn we choose
silent, laughing, lost in thought
apple-stealing mongrels that make no promises
as outcomes have the same odds, we bet on all
and when, exhausted, we collapse on the humid grass
we realize we won every hand.
Oct 2015 · 1.4k
It's your birthday today
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
It's your birthday today
all the yellow bridges I cross
with the hay stacks and the chopped wood
and the lady's dogs shepherding the calves
shrink the distance
between my goosebumps and your shivers
and the wisdom that you see will come.
Jun 2015 · 648
Sugar II
Yellow Boots Jun 2015
I have the right to be myself and brave
as myself
I have the right to not be scared
of the words I've tailored for you
in the place I no longer fear entering
In your sacred shrine of empty discourse
I have the right to violate your silence
for the good of a contrived humanity
and myself
This is not the calm before the storm
it's the calm storm, the Fahren-heit
and the solitude of prime numbers
as I set your temple on fire
I have the right to not run away
and watch it burn
purify your false assumptions
that feelings are a symptom
of female hysteria
I am not looking for salvation
in your false prophet's arms
I have a voice and it's mellow and calmly brave
it's the sparkle
that only ignites your kerosene-doused morale
I am a man
and a woman
I am a satchel full of incendiary sugar
Jun 2015 · 1.0k
Non parlarmi
Yellow Boots Jun 2015
Non parlarmi.
Apri il lucernario,
l'aria è pesante.
Accosta gli scuri,
l'alba è entrata fuori tempo stamattina.
Leggimi Bulgakov
di soppiatto, nella stanza spenta.
Dammi il tabacco
perchè danzi su queste labbra imbronciate
mentre pronunci male tutte le parole importanti
e non mi parli.
Passami un bicchier d'acqua
attraverso questo silenzio brulicante di genere,
mostra il tuo buon cuore
alla gelosia degli oggetti che tocco
e continua a non parlarmi,
se ti pare.
Jun 2015 · 809
The Trees II
Yellow Boots Jun 2015
But my shut eyes see the trees, the forest
where yellow crosses mark the path
and wings flutter untimely
citrus wood shavings warmed our nest,
now mine,
empty and full of possibilities,
where Pan and Icarus gave birth
to platonic sailors, where
no one heard the muffled mermaid songs
and this tragedy elected no stage to act on.
Where I untangled the safety rope
so I wouldn't have to cut it off
and you considered all its intricacies
in your free fall towards the horizon.
Jun 2015 · 583
The Trees I
Yellow Boots Jun 2015
When your presence brought hope
to my trembling hands, molten,
viscous, beating
words laid upon them
as the sacrificial offer you accepted
into your own, dripping.
Now fear runs wild
and melancholy-infused
church bell chimes choke the air
and the high-voiced choir.
But my shut eyes see the trees, the forest,
the summer stars,
the trees.
May 2015 · 600
How To Relate
Yellow Boots May 2015
How do we relate to the ancient magicians
that traveled before they colonized the forests ?
What is the secret within tribal costumes and instincts
we've been formatted to forget ?
How much of our intrinsic sadness
belongs to the woods and the fireflies
and do we have to be buried
with it, kicking and splintered,
before it's brought back to the surface?
May 2015 · 1.4k
Philosophy of the Wool
Yellow Boots May 2015
You asked me for two papers,
I smiled.
Through rotten teeth,
right after puberty,
you spat your doomed philosophy at us,
set desert bushes on fire
as the pink avalanche kept stirring.
You'd never seen the snow
or crossed a sea
but the stars that came in that night
like foreign dialects, unceremoniously
spelled out in grains of sand
shone on religiously
on your ****-hardened tongue.
The dunes forgave our sins
spun into dromedary wool.
Yellow Boots May 2015
You asked me for a paper,
I smiled.
On the train to aesthetics,
charcoal stained fingers
and a french beanie hat.
You knew I would treat you better
than your runway wife from the balkans;
war-caused addictions,
how she saved you and left you here to rot
as Paris called her but your bones were heavy.
Rehab had made you weaker,
the house on the hill almost exploded
when you attempted a quick escape
leaving the gas canister open.
My hugs made you invisible
to fascist police down Via Zamboni,
burping up all your discontent,
hiding in the last row of my philosophy class;
è un amore impossibile
despite your green blue eyes,
the radio warned us
and I listened.
I watched you inject it
in the train station's bathroom,
the needle too thick, your skin too soft,
my voice too feeble to keep you unharmed.
Mother's ears too long
to ever let me pick up the phone;
your scattered drawing of me
to guide me to your unmarked grave.
May 2015 · 1.1k
Toulouse, your veil
Yellow Boots May 2015
On my way out of failed attempts
stuck at a bus stop, this woman
scared of me
and my backpack full of crumbs.
Can your burka protect you
from red wine and cardboard signs,
can it protect me
from fast foods and the foreign invasion ?
Can we ride the bus together
out of this city of glue,
successfully conceal the boredom
of waiting through egoistic drivers' strikes,
to a place where a veil
neither hides fear
nor causes it ?
May 2015 · 571
Yellow Boots May 2015
through forest fires
coming to you
the stench of paper factories
and indian sweat
with yellow flowers of May I'll write you
love poems of leaves
before they're mulched to muddy waters
wondering what their smell will be like
once they finally reach you
and it's mixed with yours
to melt into golden honey in your hands_
Apr 2015 · 386
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
Poetry is a lie
when I sleep with you, dream about him,
sleep with him, dream about you,
write about you, blinded by his yellow eyes that mean nothing,
it's a lie that changes nothing.
If it's about you, my muse, on both knees you'll fall.
Freely recalling metaphorical deeds, my love,
the thorn stays in your paw.
So inflate your chest but believe
what is here, it's all for me.
Just a reminder; it's not you, it's me.
Apr 2015 · 1.1k
On how to build a house
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
We will build a house
in the forgotten crooked forest
to be our primordial nest
and all people's refuge, raft.

Through screen doors that won't shut
a glimpse of me, baking
banana shortbread cakes, the kids
out there, feeding donkeys, happy
goats making cheese for arab salads,
reminding all brothers to avoid potato sprouts,
sweet poison strangely bitter, thorny artichokes
to joke that eating flowers
makes for perfumed manure.

Freeloading kindness from all quarters, sides
indian TPs and caravanas
for long-term guests, tree houses
for the little ones, a tyre swing
that fits 5, jet-propelled into the lake.

A treasure hidden in its basement, glistening
for a stable house always needs to stand on one leg,
while you, lost at sea, starstruck continue
showing your grin to the world
for that's your home and the best way
not to feel empty is to keep going.

But us,
what a beautiful house we will build !
Apr 2015 · 863
Behind but safe
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
Well, it was a good run. No chewing and spitting out.
I wrote poems, you made breakfast,
walked through mists, danced mazurkas.
Embroidered constellations onto watercolor paper,
braided wicker in your hair,
stars just as bright to lead me astray;
carved our names into dead trees so we could rightfully say
through all dreams that came true,
our love got wood.
Yeah, no, I'll be fine,
it was nice of you to call;
I'll be here, guarding the river,
making sure water doesn't dare to flow by twice
for it might get confused
when it hears your voice brought back by the fearless wind.
I will forget to leave a candle on to light your way
but you fare safe,
and may the dogs always lick your nose
warm goodnights.
Apr 2015 · 978
Her ring
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
Monotonous bird calls
squirreling from branch to branch
around the house on the hill
and perfumed used jasmine tea bags,
yellow plastic boots for when the woods are wet,
stewed mushrooms called pig ears, fairy hands, little nails,
her knitted cape, her ring.

Tie braided flowers and tiny herbs
I picked from her garden
around my finger,
I wear her pulse on my wrist.
Build a fort here,
live alone by the land that was hers.
Apr 2015 · 1.7k
substance, essence
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
It's when I write about you
that everything gets clear again,
the compass points North again,
I'm found when it's you I write about.
Silly, you, my last cigarette
that it's today, then it's tomorrow,
then it's never
(might denote substance abuse on my part,
lack of substance on yours,
plenty of essence, silly eyed you).
Your stubble-ness that never hurt
my skin, my drama queen attitude
that's so last year.
We've both grown, now
irony is free, a laughter
that wakes up the neighbors, mine,
your sobriety, sober shirts, sober posture;
you don't get my jokes anymore, do you?
Silly serious grown-up haircut,
stick my fingers up your nose,
teach you how to be stray and free again,
tell you all is good, I still love you
like an orphan a passer-by, you
so northerly cold, fierce, insecure, mask
behind which my golden silly one lies sad
unaware of substance, essence
caught on a leash that's his own free will.
Mar 2015 · 5.0k
Spring cleaning
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
there's novelty in that orange juice
freshly squeezed, freshly toasted
flaxseed bread
butter, just at the right temperature
not too hard to spread, not too liquidy
as to stain pajama pants
fresh mulberries that Rita bought
on a day we were rich
fresh oatmeal with pumpkin jam
crispy spinach, eggs
all so colorfully devoid of haste
perfumed breeze on the balcony
anew, all fresh !
Mar 2015 · 897
It will be dry
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
I will load the washing machine
I will
do the laundry
enjoy the spring sun
try not to wonder

they don't have to be sad
and goodbyes
I don't have to
just get by, obviously
drifting my days away
picking the simplest feelings
and words
plain, honest, little getting by
hanging it out in the sun
rinse, repeat
but come back tomorrow, love
and they will have dried.
Mar 2015 · 365
March Sunday
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
She woke up early to go down to the river. Over the week, blossoms had covered the cherry trees and the sun had gotten further from the Earth. The air was chilly and it smelled of lemonade and sulfur. She bought a strawberry lollypop at the kiosk on the corner and started off against the traffic; the cars still had their lights on and shadows were long. The black and white cat with pointy ears passed her rapidly on his way home after his nightly duties, fierce and smug he trotted majestically down the alleyway then halted alert at the zebra crossing.
The most wondrous, magical moments, the most mundane, turn to ash in front of her eyes. All amounts to the same, all is transmuted to a cog in her mechanical routine. All she had wished for had come true and a peculiar ecstatic apathy followed hysteria, disbelief, suspicion and healthy wisdom, respectively. She missed the smell of fire and wind, the clouds, the darkness. A gargantuan *** of bubbling stew; wood splinters under the skin. She voraciously gnawed the last bits off the stick, gulped down the sugary mixture and bit into the plastic until her teeth were clenched hard, then released as her jaw muscles started twitching.
No amount of thinking would lead her in a favorable direction; for a while, she had refused to take decisions, opting for trusting the world to give her the green light. Instinct, on the other hand, had always known where happiness lives but drives armless down dusty slopes, suicidally dazzled by shooting stars, breaking only after the gates are shut behind and the tank is as empty as an ocean whose waves have all crashed.
She pet the cat, which meowed a tale of mice and prowess, then crossed running the red traffic light. The time for being cautious expired yesterday; futures are kamikaze and hungry for insatiable railways and distant, candlelit tenderness.
Mar 2015 · 507
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Monili argentati con segni lunari
risplendono alla luce del mattino.

Margherite che stanno morendo,
si accasciano altri corpi sulla spiaggia.

Il cielo riflesso sull'acqua,
immenso nell'equilibrio cosmico.

Pende dal cappio un manichino
sfregiato in un vomito d'interni.

Stelle mescolate in mezzo al vento,
tremolanti per paura del silenzio.

***** spaccate come cocci caduti,
ne escon fluendo latte e sangue.
Mar 2015 · 884
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Correvamo giù dalle scale
pattini nascosti nello zaino
quell'androne e le sue prime esperienze
andare a fare salti nell'autodromo
e mio padre prima di noi
mi venivi a prendere da scuola
scrivevi lettere, blu su bianco
ancora le ** in una scatola.

Quella terra solo nostra,
città per me sempre analogica
questa, mai mia, d'immigrata,
di messaggi letti e non risposti
dove l'aria non profuma di casa ma
di adattamento,
senza biciclette o piste o campi.

Quasi trent'anni e come i nostri vecchi,
che i fossi li saltavano per il lungo,
rimpiangendo che qualcuno chieda
"vuoi giocare con noi",
a pensare a quanti errori fatti,
a livello cosmico,
perchè perfino i nostri progenitori
ci pensino più contenti qua fuori
che non di fianco a loro
sul Titanic che affonda.
Mar 2015 · 5.0k
quote master for hire
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Famous poet of death and promiscuous love
offers witty captions for your selfies
suits all styles and targets
social network friendly
specialised in b & w & shades of Grey
accessible pricing, genuine callers only
Mar 2015 · 2.6k
of dogs, Jan. Sunday
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
whimsical union of intents
in this square, like stray dogs
looking for each other's owner
weaving machiavellian plans
(retrospectively already outdated,
though methodically reiterated)
nibbling on stale juicy bones
oozing bittersweet belonging,
undermining stable systems
of comfortable relentless solitude,
dozing off licking each other's noses
in the same ripe misty heaven
that's today's mock-up of a home.
Mar 2015 · 985
of bunnies, years before
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Experience draws a path. Crumpled grass, should have covered my tracks better. I just want to forget how I got here, so that I can't go back.

I love it here. A soft and sweet den. We've been digging bits after bits, my bunny and I, and I'm positive we'll reach the antipodes. Soon enough we'll crawl in fallen leaves, una foresta fresca, a volte come Le Douanier. In macchina vestita di bianco, bello come la coda di un coniglio.

Happiness makes it all y no me digas que no puedes con esta locura. There are no answers and no questions, and I'm glad to share this wide electric solitude with you. Is there anything you really want ? Satisfactory punctuation, a ballerina in distress ? The indomitable willingness to embrace pure concepts in a purple skyline of irrational paranoia ?
Yellow Boots Dec 2014
Sul pavimento scheggiato
a piedi nudi
lo sguardo, timido e complice
arrossire dell'urgenza innocente
ti porgo la mano
una colonna sorregge chimere
castelli disegnati e gonne strette
con armonia d'intenti
sollevo la coscia
respira, rilassa
movimenti tondi e spaziosi
circumnavigare l'euforia
a cadenza ritmica
la forza di gravità diminuisce
quando è con te che danzo.
Dec 2014 · 302
give it 2 weeks
Yellow Boots Dec 2014
I'm not falling
for you
I am in free fall
towards the idea
of you
(and so are you).
Dec 2014 · 2.3k
Late ?
Yellow Boots Dec 2014
I'm not procrastinating
I'm just doing all the things
that don't need to be done
that I had never planned on doing
that will lead me to magical discoveries
and epiphanies and crazy stories to tell
to the children I don't want to have
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