don’t think I have a body anymore but a house of cards, will find anything a good reason to crumble, henceforth. there are late violets blooming on my legs, ashes in my inner pocket from a cigarette I refused to forget. one of those that go on burning forever.

missing V. often feels like post-apple sticky hands, loud coughing or bad thin coffee, I don’t know, ‘wish I could be with you right now, somewhere, and we could make the
world real again’, and until then someone should hand us both balancing poles for tightrope walking.