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your sense of melancholy is broad and sweeping like a rollercoaster of feathers from the dead pigeons you used to collect in the shoe box with edges worn, soft from all the times you hugged it and cried.
remember it, for once.
you have packed it away deep in the card catalogue
of your life, somewhere
between \"boys loved\" and
\"alcoholic beverages consumed.\" you have left it, spinning on a sill the way steam does when you open the bathroom window.
remember it, for
by !gustoboy
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“I long to touch something, other than cloth or wood. I hunger to commit the act of touch.” -The Handmaid's Tale
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her: i should go. i'm wasting my life.
me: not like that will change once you leave.
her: well, i will pay more attention to my art.
me: i maintain my stance on the issue.
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