2013-11-18

all my dreams are dead

I move to a country called get sick and die. I intercept snippets of conversation from passing clouds. I sneeze hard on the blue motorway. It was sunny for a thousand years. Before I got sick and north. I miss you, my imaginary friend. I kiss you in the cold lighthouse, a day overgrown with fog and clouds. I undress you and kiss your breasts in the terminal memories of a day I never dreamed.