it's late, I come home flushed. Some unfinished business covers my bed, my room's a mess. I'm going to do my laundry. I've cooked dinner made out of anything that hasn't gone bad, could be a little bad, but if I add sriracha I won't be able to tell tomorrow for lunch. first I'm going to do the laundry, then I'll write a poem. Something to do with forgiveness. For you, but also for me. On my way to work, I wondered if one can fall out of love as quickly as in? And how absurd it is to impose a metaphorical death on someone who's become a stranger. I guess I thought of it, because I am not sure if I should ask for a ceremony. A proper burial. I feel it should be free form. I would normally opt for some kind of rhythmic lettering, but I am too tired to breathe life into my own words, reading them over and over again, out loud; in hopes that you might hear me.
a compilation of things that make up an online sketchbook, and stuff.