birmingham, 1977. you’re finally free, listening to the new procol harum’s album in the back of a van, high on hash brownies, watching some drunk punks fighting over a piece of burger from the trash. here’s what you’re thinking of:
when the day is done for her, the peonies in midsummer are crying for nothing, nothing at all. so you decide to fall for her once more when you lay down at the altar, your hands wrapped tightly around her pulsating throat. all faith fled with her, turning into shivers of the autumn blue.
the rain-kissed eyelids
became an invitation
to reverie