post-war hangover

there were pearls on the floor and boots facing each other and we danced [of course] because thats the only line of poetry i can remember. there are at least eight variations of saying farewell to a lover and only one of them is goodnight. there are at least six fish in the fishbowl but only three if you forgot to feed your dog. moleskine journals were not created for calculations only recreations of the old testament and bebop on a friday night. if this is what it feels good to be i dont want to be anything. i want to be the sky an hour after sunset when darkness lunges at the fading light. everything we know is because of the sun. the cracks in the fishbowl are delicate because kids tap at the glass [they dont know any better]. we didnt teach them better because we never felt better ourselves. tap three times a lover is standing too close. six months later the lover still hasnt said goodbye. blurry but fading backwards into the gold light. the lord and our savior [the dead goldfish buried in the backyard]. we said grace before our meals but we still hadnt washed our hands. dirty with a crush that makes you feel. if this were an autobiography id record the seconds between the flashes of kaleidoscopic flamenco. there was grey script and green script but we preferred the black font [lowercase] to tell the neighbours about the death of my goldfish. everything we know is because of the sun. you look best on a sunday morning.

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