some strike endlessly,

not out of shame

but in. an enthusiastic

endeavor of a will.

(and use potential

wholeheartedly, yours & mine

until what's left is like

the bottom of any cereal box:

a breakfast of champions)

of blending in the li(n)es

of deceit and sweet

nothings

i allow to happen,

and some times

almost admire it,

Asli,

 

i love that she wears romanticism under her eyes, relentlessly. 

it is 3am. when i finish telling you of my sorrow, through my horrible telephone, i am going to use it as a flashlight, desperately wavering over Allen Ginsberg's HOWL, wondering where my own went. i care more.