as if I held her hand, full of regret. A weeping willow rejects me breathing in my cigarettes, death’s in the traveler being left alone in Italy; from the garden, all bodied, all that red and bleak
Neurochemical duress, the labor of my body aglows, destitution in mental illness; a fragmented waste of sperm
It would always end this way.
Love; hate, lies go both ways.