sharing a meal on inherited dishes is like eating with all of the angry spirits of every fight around the dinner table her mother’s linen napkins taste of waxy lipstick and vodka and stale cigarettes every time i wipe my mouth it is like open mouth kissing a corpse
feeling haunted by the ghosts of first kisses they hover at the edge of my lips whispering of times long dead shh can you hear them no they are mine alone my personal unrequited lullabye
my head is pounding like the cymbal in the hands of a little monkey so many things in my head some light and airy others dark and foreboding sleep is going to be long in coming tonight my love if it comes at all i heard footsteps in the hallway yet here i lay all […]
Mike's Manic Word Depot 