broadcastpoulet

there is a quiet moment when the bottles are calming our violent insides and the voices turn silent, tiptoeing towards the river, waiting for our feet to slip. it isn't a surprise that your second nature is to cast your fishing line and cut all ties to your throne, a cigarette ash like a pencil falling in your lap before you realize you haven't written a word. i swallowed my tongue in the bridge collapse. we'll go to the island and drink like we promised, though our patterns become obscured and we walk into ethereal bitterness, 4am, 7am, carousel, and i'm numb, like you, living like the humiliation doesn't come at a price - the bed on the sidewalk, the limbs in the trees, the flies in your ears. erase, repeat.