i found these scribbled in my notebook this morning (afternoon). words and things kept running through my head last night and i kept grabbing the little guy and scratching up his innards. it's possible the spell of writer's block has been broken. it's possible.
prematurely grey skies.
i quiver beneath you,
between you.
struggling for a late night fix,
dragging ourselves through the offsets of time,
the back streets of infinity.
your chairs are cursive,
your positions perfect.
you are meant to be there.
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