The idea of a headache
more like getting drunk
in a packed, heartbreakingly smelling bar
a universal truth claiming
When your soul cracks open, it reeks of cheap sex and chlorine
from all that cleaning I’ve been drowning myself in: high functioning depression
of eastern european women; beautiful vision
toying with a random bartender
as if he were a mouse I took hostage under my wicked claws
You like watching me flirt with strangers
clenching your fists underneath the table
to prove how manly you are: you don’t want me, you wanna be me;
gorgeous view
knowing perfectly well, I’ll write something about this very moment later
a couple of lines
saying
the idea of being the last one sober
The smell of eternity dying slowly in your arms, holy
no more than a death unknown to cold-blooded creatures – that’s us
Two cowards silently giving up
meeting each month in crowded bars, reliving surrender until they stop pretending
that
this
isn’t love.
Last 3 letters of the spring 
Leave a comment