He thinks, all accusing, at the profile in the next seat, the luggage rack rattling defensive snake. He thinks, yes sweetheart under your ass is a ring of conceits.
We pack a bag get on a train and eat the sandwich. The flick book style countryside suits all the kissing. We get off in Oxford and in a café with a balustrade make a list,
The things I hope happen The thing is, I hardly remember you, the dull Al Gores of pain that ate the inner cortex; all the seas of acquaintance I have, come to like for a while.
‘The ways we work’, she said, ‘the way the world turns.’ And I thought she was an idiot. Because you told everyone that I loved you that it hurt a bit when you left,