Thursday, February 4, 2016


Hanging onto nicotine like monkey bars. And my palms are feeling cold. But at least my face is warm. And my lungs full. Spinning on a merry-go-round. Feeling a little drunk. There is a spill in the sand. Every time the Spring comes. I wonder if it's Riesling? I'm on a child's swing. One with the oscillation. If Camellia's by my side. I go up. When she's gone. I go down.

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