Last chance for laundry:
fresh,
clean,
folded,
ready,
steady,
sleep.
Instead, I wear the same socks for the 3rd day..
white turned a shady grey or brown, unidentified color even the paint spectrum dismissed a chance for clearing out the 55 shades of glamourous dirt, grey-mouse-nose sniffed for clues of why is this moment singing my blues.
An old honey jar filled with mild temperature water, soothes my chance to last a song. Recycling Tom Waits dispair in the opportunity century.
Is it too late?
I whisper shamelessly. But whisper. Why is that?
A drop of honey in 19 degrees, it doesn’t mix.
Again, external sweetness before a long internal gulp of unwanted phases.
That legless person gave me a look yesterday while I was crying, standing patiently in the lights, actually sitting under coco palms, shedding liquid salt then he shouted: sweet sweet, don’t cry for a red light, I’ve been breathing red, orange, green lights, immobilized, and you, you’re transgressing nature, Formula 1 passing by, me pedestrian flightless, a clown, papaya seeds I chew I kiss, your window spit I never miss.
Nevermind,
please don’t post my salt.
Just rethink your bittersweet symphony before you use the wrong voice.
.
.
.
Turn right, it’s green.
Stop beeping, we’re sleeping.
The brown mature coconuts didn’t understand my nature.
On their island.
