I’m abstract like a
like a picture in the.
And now, writing in the white box
I still remember the effect of the
alcohol, those nights, those green fields
those titles heads,
painless heads,
so titles, so so back, a backbone
like a circle and the stars
as my own, sweet, circus.
Love, my love, I remember
memories, and remembering memories
is check mate.
Is the metallic sound of the key
in the door of the
Painless nights, I remember them.
When we were trying to cross the scaffold
when we
Now I write in the white box, I’m abstract,
like piano notes,
fake: like Soprano’s actors.
I’m just me in the waiting cue of something
looking a bit back
and than nothing.

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