laundry. i hate laundry. everyday its the same thing and everyday there are more clothes then i can possibly fathom and i cant stant that im the only one to do it all. and above all i hate socks that never ever have a match.
remiss at the mention of someone’s someone.
i fear faith lies in another shade tied up in your mothers attic.
i follow you to another anchor.
i frequently frown.
matinee marches fly forever at the sight of my loves.
I pulled you up
and under my ears the cold would sting
hands in my pockets
the dirty rocks clash with the beautiful ocean
gorgeous but unforgiving
the sky is dying in bright reds and purple bruises
and the lighthouse shines no more.