life is already perfect
because nothing
stays
for
too
long
and second chances
brush your shoulders
like familiar strangers
you think maybe
if they stop and turn
they would recognize you
but
maybe it is perfect
because they
just
never
my writings and other illusions
tracks
of happiness
fluttering
why were the books lying face down why were cigarette dusts piling up between the flower pots why were the bus seats so warm why
nobody will ever
wonder
breathe into my mouth i’ll break
into millions of whispers
and we’ll be gone before the first teardrop hits the ground
i
have
no
idea
i
have
none
what is nice
when
no
thing
surprises
no
more
what is nice
our eyes
gleam
with
a
secret
as
frail
as
a
good
night
kiss
barely
touching
the
lips
what is nice
spell
that
word
what is nice
i’ll
probably
end
up
in
your
writing
just
like
you
in
mine
what is nice
must
not
end.
26 june 2008
when edophilia lit me a cigarette.
i don’t think the sun ever fell for me that day.

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