My Blood Is Full Of Airplanes

Poets say things like
“you smell like December and broken glass.”
But I’ll never be a poet
and the only smell I associate with you is
ginger green tea
and the leather bound books
that you hide in your back pocket.

I loved you like choking on a cherry pit.
I loved you like a leafless tree.
I loved you like 3 shots of whiskey
and half a pack of cigarettes
and it’s summer
and we’re stupid
and you really have no clue at all.

Some people search the night sky for some sort of greater meaning.
I search for the right words to string together,
to form a single sentence saying:
Fuck this feeling, just please come back.

edgarabbit:

We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting

Finish by Charles Bukowski