your breath moves each week along
since it has hijacked the wind.
All your manic time have turned to winter
As each day is swiftly pushed along
Like a thousand tiny boats
Whose sails are filled by giant fans.
And you roll around each moment with your tongue
leaving nothing behind but the chaos of chance.
I wish I could touch you once more
To turn your breath deeper
In the hollows of your pale throat
So we always have 12Am
And you can
just over each note of Jackson Brown
Copyright © Matthew Abuelo | Year Posted 2016
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