Wednesday, 12 June 2013

Poets say things like 
"you smell like December and broken glass." 
But I'll never be a poet 
and the only smell I associate with you is 
ginger green tea 
and the leather bound books 
that you hid in your back pocket. 

I loved you like choking on a cherry pit.
I loved you like a leafless tree.
I loved you like 3 shots of whiskey 
and half a pack of cigarettes 
and it's summer 
and we're stupid 
and you really have no clue at all. 

Some people search the night sky for some sort of greater meaning. 
I search for the right words to string together,
to form a single sentence saying:
Fuck this feeling, just please come back.