one month later, I'm a fucking crow

would my mom be more proud of the poetry
or the pursuit of love, or would she just be drinking?
it's too late to articulate an empty feeling,
and I have built this up like a monolith made of inside jokes.
but maybe we can learn to start again, fight pride,
perish the thought of a possibility this won't work.
it doesn't have to be like this; it doesn't have to be like anything;
we can cause it to be something unique, proving kismet write.