be sorry for the otherswhofidgetcomplainwhoconstantlyrearrange theirliveslikefurniture.juggling matesandattitudestheirconfusion isconstantand it willtouchwhoever theydeal with.beware of them:one of theirkey words is"love."Charles Bukowski - For The Foxes
There's a reason
that there is a footpath
in and out of planes, leading all the way up my spine.
You wanted to be able to take part in miracles,
while mine were accounted for,
many (blue) moons ago.
there's nothing more that takes me back
to the tiny hairs on your shoulders
than when it's dark,
when everything seems more enhanced.
Drinks taste better in the dark,
as does anything between a pair of legs,
any pair of legs.
Add shadows to the walls and I belong there.
Consider me those crumpled up bed sheets
between your body and the mattress.
Except these memories have decided to move
to the southern hemisphere of my brain
to a small village next to the sea
where there are no phones.
Let it go just like I've let everything else go,
let myself go,
like you let me go.
Oil slipping through ducts of well-versed fingers
and a mouth
that was the only thing worth caving in on,
in tiny rooms, in tiny beds, in cages,
in a city under a city.
Our gravitational pull was never a coincidence,
any more than it is coincidence
that you are reading this.
Old sweet nothings
are ever since repeated to newcomers.
You probably deserve everything equally as ordinary
as you are.