I will remain myself, myself always;
these restrictions will not inhabit me,
never in a month of Sundays.
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Behind the usual things
there is something else.
You and I, changed by chance,
late to our own party,
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I get older and learn to give away desire
Hand it off at the charity shop as unwanted junk but
Struggle to pick out something I could keep
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Imagine you’re barefoot, and the floor is covered in CDs in their cases that you’ve collected ever since your heart broke last. Bossanova, Pink Robots, the Bridget Jones soundtrack;
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summer is sinking her teeth into my bones, like I am a rotten fruit in the mandibles of a bug. my peach fuzz skin lies broken open on the sand, the sea breeze slowly cooling my insides.
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Why is it that the pen on paper feels so much more intimate when I know it is going to you?
Each stroke becomes my hand in yours, yours in my hair
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