There's something about love poems that makes me puke.
the overwhelming, automatic adoration the endless, nonsensical dedication the blinded, perfected intoxication
That's not really me.
I need a balanced independence of mind with a little heart and soul unrefined and a life that isn't outlined.
There's something about my cynical poems that makes me puke.
the sound of my dad’s guitar playing his favorite chords the typing of my mom’s fingers going through family records the smell of the ceramics studio full of the kiln, dust and glaze the running home
it’s the little things they always say like how you listen more than you ever have before or how you stopped opening my car door like how you squeeze me tighter in our hugs or how you don’t answer me
I cant remember the last photo i took maybe it was a mountain maybe my niece maybe myself maybe you looking away no matter what it was it’s the last thing my lense has seen which means it means everyt