excommunicate that
its one two six.
no perfect order.
i know it won't be me.
i might be okay with that.

the same boy i always (knew).

i imagine it like scoops of wind picking us up in a twister of pale green and cheesecake colors. no smiles, just talk and words and exchanges. lots of brown and lots of eyes and not so much white. pale pale pale green and crushed pianos at fingertips flowers whirling down to the reflecting shadows of trees on glass words in mouth impressions in heart.

everything is very windy these days/


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