3:06am. Living in our cardboard boxes, we were always nomadic laughing and screaming as we ran into oncoming traffic. Her skin is narcotic. I am a fiend, her lips are morphine and I'm starting to get nauseous. The vertigo makes an open sign start to read closed. xoxo. Her fingers are frail from the years we refused to ever let go. Hallucinations in April of fallen angels and powdered snow and the only feeling was the bite of unspoken words in the back of my throat.
Sawyer S.
It's a fable now, of a forgotten town. Whispering goodbye to every belligerent blue that must have wasted you. Two was too many yet twenty was already plenty. When had we subscribed to the idea that love was a construct only to be destroyed by the vices we employed? I feel like a child, innocent and praying to God in a church pew as if He could stop and rewind to that one time our fingers intertwined and I felt truly fine. It's all a fable now, of a forgotten town.
Sawyer S.
Addict Brain Poetry by Sawyer 