your breath is hot, sticky, and smells of a liquor older than me but younger than you. a symphony of fractured fables sits on the paper, the lyrics of your doubt cascade down the lines, and the ink blots and bubbles over the table. the fist of your rage is a heavy beating heart.
i am your greatest virtue, and you bury me alive because of it.
YOU ARE READING
wanderer
Poetrywe danced and we danced until the soles of shoes wore down to the flesh.
