28. Armegeddon

                                                              F
                                                       o
                                                   r
                                               e
                                          v
                                      e
                                 r
the words sort of soaked into my skin
a bottle bend down my throat / I
suppose that these flowers
in my pot like mouth
should grow / like
thought-out
words
in
to
b
e
a
u
t
y/
your martini glass eyes.


((If I leave this place
will you remember me…
even when I fade away?))

The End

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