tap dancing on my break up
sugar cubes, i'd write our romance novel
on the back of a book-store receipt
and tuck it in your closeted reflection.
infecting both the multiplicity of meanderings and the
Romantic in the worst sense, I'm Paris and Rosalinemusicality of morning, the thoughts told tenuously tinted the glasses and made the whole goddamn world look rosy.
watching Romeo and Juliet
the ballet
on the handlebars of your little bicycle
because the drugs are real
and your life is all
all
hallucinating me meandering past your window and holding all your secrets like the diary you couldn't ever stop writing thoughts about me in when you were supposed to be forgetting.
Choking on narcotics
and praising the ecosystem of the city,
Verona couldn't even wish
me farewell
because you're too busy killing yourself over a fucking
peach
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