Pages

She left the pages between his shoulder blades
it made for awkward reading.
He only appeared on Saturdays and usually
it was too late for reflection.

Toast and champagne
left on bookshelves of lampposts and venders
who sell their goods off shady rundown corners
and cobwebs of remorse…well sometimes self-regret.

They usually make the most when the eves are open
and the stars are impossible to see,
in a city where trauma is the biggest flower you can buy
and lovers usually wait until dawn to see one another.

On the perfect side of him, where everything is dim
there is a run-a-round and it costs just as much
as dinner.
but this way you get to see the horse drawn carriage
run on forever.

Flavors come in packages of eight
and the black and white silhouettes usually consume the most
of course it all depends on their tangents.

In the eighteen hundreds when morality was a matter of condolences
and perfection was found in graveyards.
there was no need for lectures, intelligence, or god forsaken
language.

Ice freezes over the Atlantic but it has to be a particularly
nasty summer.
When expectations fall on the way side
And dreams blow out your ears.
It’s the steam that comes of these times

Pages

Chloe ?

Joined August 2008

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