Around the bed frame hollow cans and rings from coffee cups line the pages on the desk monday spent mourning the sun while taste still lingers from something lost along the way
and you're the worst at what you love the best and up till now: an experiment
around the staircase pools of dried blood singing you to sleep the dishes will know to do themselves I can't remember places but I do recall the name of something lost along the way
and we used to know where we all would go when where gone and whispers of doubt that escaped our mouth carried home and as the night kept our parents in bed we burned new york to the ground and we used to know where we all would go when were gone