i feel im stuck imagining the best part of my life, i know ive felt love ill never feel again. with no account of our experience without a question of its truth, i want to savor it, keep it deep in soul so i have it to grow. im talking about pictures and his face. im forgetting who i am, im starting to wonder if im boiling with no vent inside for no reason, if im lying to my new friends, no one cares about the stories, i have no proof.
annie hall was to make love with. the day we retraced our steps out of the green sheen of bedroomdom, back to the night we met, playground sound up in the tower, there for an hour with no words between us only a permanent sign that the stars above us can align, fly down etched up stoney hill, warm cement kiss, middle of the street thrill. that was a dream we both had as we slept still, i could draw it of you'd stay longer, paint it if your face needs some color, sing it if your strings mend a time the sunset we would follow.
the knowing of ink under the moments peak, out of life down a porcaline sink,clink,blinkblinkblink..baby please separate those lashes i need the sun to rise. boyd,back yard ball. back in beige doom, this room with no zoom. i cant remember who i am until i see his face outside of my own head, ive seen what my dreamscape seeps too late, im running out of soul. into an empty glass bowl. if i made someone out of flesh and skull id be in love again, old soul dies sooner, young spirit ascend.

all the leaves in the sky

every little bit counts. feeling, i still feel you like a  spry doe that feels her blood pulsing through the dirt to a another life. taken from me the best thing i could have gievn away. mushrooms are always in their past life, here to poison whats already there and acid wash into a new time,  all the sudden not one certain smile, last look, or reassurance of my young soul could even make it to the place i'd rather be with you. i dreamed that i was really missing my long brown hair. i had word salaad for breakfast and word vomit projected to orange paper, what if you had to paint your day for it tto be beautiful, or write it out makr life happen, most people act it all out and cry later when no one theyve created knows who they are. flat worms; like us, separated by tainted conciousness and who's leading the way. mazed in and out of life and fed after death to a new them, and the memory of the right way is digestively and inheritently with the essence that every separte concoiousness is one.
three shadows make a solid composition under the orange glow. This house of box worlds holding life only when the owner inflluences the ingredients. like us, i drank so much water today, that i am the city. if that makes since, clear pee doesnt clean the sea.