terça-feira, 11 de novembro de 2014

some infinite thing




he wanted so bad to grow up fast
now it’s hair all over the sink
and pillowcase. now he learned

not to cross days off the calendar
or catch his face on windows
not to lose track of how many nights
he spends listening to the rain

fall in empty rooms. of how
many nights he spends banging

away on keys with nothing
to say (nothing left to squeeze

out of old memories)



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