i am empty inside but i
keep writing
because i am full off our
existence
spaces. they took one
line from me
and thought i was
finished.
i was gloomy but i was
not finished;
i am merely a windy
beginning.
words on my beneath were
fading away and your
potency
on my ring finger arm
started
boiling fonts. our
becoming
vines procrastinating our
timeless in our here and
now
in our smiling destiny
tableaux.
today we are written; again.
