#frieddays

like rain
what comes out of my pen
melts on pieces of toilet paper
dissipates on
post-it’s
life unfurls like
a photographic film
expired but exposed
waiting to be
developed

like a call or a
message or a sign
of love
that never comes
i guess dead people
really can’t use the
telephone

too bad
all this waiting
in vain
with all of its sandy sadness
and the silent pain of
twisted arteries
glow in the dark
mysteries

i only allow myself
to breathe
underwater

a conundrum

burlesque gatherings
of bloated peacock eyes
smile innocently

my saturated lungs
release all their empathy
like smoke

like smoking
i delude myself into promising to quit
you
every morning
and like smoking
i just can’t seem to be able
to give up