So I was, for a moment, in love with you because you remind me of an approaching subway brushing hair off my face with its hot breath. Darkness. And then, light.
Amazing cover by: @freaklowden.
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Always managed to move in, right next to cemeteries and never far from hospitals. I don't know what that tells you about me.
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One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.
