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