February to me feels like

three marginal birds, too unseen

holding an entity no less tender

than the way my nostrils feel

Schizoaffectively scratching

demonstrating that it too

trophies me with chance

chance, vivid in a skirt

this is how i mourn, when high

shoulder to shoulder with verbs

fuck me, no fuck you, so dapper you

psyche in captivity, free of civilities

at this point my pointillism loiters

with its usual handwriting, handshaking

handjobs, blowjobs, purely theoretical

robotry, fuck i am fucked up, altering

the latitudes of myself for you to read

my friendship lives, its mania weddings

your propositions, in these fucks of words

thank you for following my epistolary cries

i am not leaving you . .

4 thoughts on “verbs.photographs

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