Breadcrumb #230


All trains are running on the local track
Can I have a taste of what love should be, 
But probably never is?
French Rococo, his last cigarette
He lets me draw 

Eyes down, eyelashes soft
Melting folding disappearing into myself
Pretending he doesn’t know
Praying my pretense is reality
Pretending you aren’t in front of me
With your hood down, shoes off, let’s make this even

Mmmmm like an animal
Like eating your little brother’s birthday cake
Like an alien vomiting onto the earth
We devour each other
Biting and tearing, wishing you were him
And I was her
Our love is fake, a tragic remedy
An attempt to bandage an incurable wound
You and I are not enough

In spite of, despite, in addition to
A slice less indulgent than the whole
Trust me--I’ll take what I can take
Giving hurts
Work drinks. Work dinner. Work coffee.
Tinder date. Bumble fuck.
I hope you aren’t upset 

Time, the dimension of nonexistence
Click, tap, shhh
Minutes are hours
Click, tap, shh, shut the fuck up
Where is the subway?
Ocean eyes glaring into my soul, he knows
Whispers, click, tap, shhh, whispers, silence
Where do we go from here?
The E train is running on the express track
But I need the local train
I need a local love
I missed it
Where do I go from here?

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