8
You can tattoo a sideways 8 on your hand
but know you aren’t coming back up.
Then there’s the brown and the smoke…
the things that depress you in bathtubs…
drinking alone.
In my mind, I never left that night on the phone…
when she told me foreign mouths make her feel home.
I had to let her go. Goodbye. So long.
And if everything works out for me, I will never tire and
I will never expire and I will never watch
my friends destroy each other.
The future belongs to village idiots
inking stories about love on napkins.

Text tagged as: poem writing writer love spilled_ink poetry indie words