The heart wants to feel. The heart wants to hold. The heart takes past Subway, past Stop and Shop, past Beal’s, and calls it “coming home.”

he's just a brush of cigarettes tonight, killing her softly the song says sweetly like all the nice friends would do when she'd call up and tell them the details of the masochistic crescendo of a song she unwillingly wrote each day. not just the rainy ones were a symphony conducted by the emotionally inept, you know. no, the lines were all distorted, each one she counted before him to prove her sincerity and not such accused innocence, kind sir! (but the general public counts the doe-eyed looks for points against her anyways)



there is one spot, which is not so much of a spot as it is a patch - though that's not the right word either. it's really a moment that happens each time you're in that one place, but the place moves with you and pertains to the weather, too. and the windows have to be all down on the driver's side. usually. and that is when It Is A Nice Day and the fortune from that fortune cookie that was really kind gross makes the most sense and it is okay if there are those little markers that have the flowers that are too hard to tell if they are real or fake around them or speed traps up ahead or not even enough time for a whole cigarette. it's the Impossible To Breathe Spot and fires cross paths there.


this little king dances in violence. thrashing waves don't entice properly; a nocturne on the other hand can pull his soul through the heaviest of undertows. we skipped the silver springs for copper to turn green together under this new sun he discovered on a Trip further south than i ever wanted to go. 'it's safe' i was assured, my own crown misplaced or forgotten, i have yet to write that in, so i followed his guidance and simply had a broken heart two minutes later. taking precautions leads to a cheap finale.