i am still not home because
the thirst to forget
knocked its smut knuckled hand upon the front door of my
rather than object
pretend no one was home i
let him in.
he steered me clear of Safety and self respect and
we washed up upon the shores of
Soon to be Regretted
our ankles wearing the shackles of discarded six pack
rejected cigarette butts.
here we are
sipping foamy head from the lips of a liar
caressing the glassy curves of another one night stand
tossing her back with no intention of respecting her taste
she momentarily removes the pain, this hoppy sister to
and for that we worship her honey angles
her malted tangles.
becomes my answer
i have not yet watched those words
dropping from your perfect lips
but instead turned to crux again;
we sometimes bow
to the silent wails
emanated in the memory bank
between our hips.
Breton Lalama writes to share the beauty of small moments and encourage others to question, think, and feel. They like hanging with plants and eating tomato sandwiches, and are willing to let the void have a nibble of tomato sandwich, if it desires.