Again, I write
on crumpled paper-skin.
Darker inks are deeper scars.
I'm fading
in and out of words,
fading, in
and out
like the sunsets
and a ceiling fan
and an empty bottle spinning.
So before these memories
swirl and fade,
let me write all
on crumpled paper-skin.
Three lines, with my name on it.
Three lines, with my hate on it.
Three lines, with all my tears,
and the last lines bearing love.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Sins of an Erratic Heart
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