might put this rhyme right here.
so she'd think it's a poem.
when in her city.
lines of blue give way to jazz.
a lost experimental novella.
pizzasluts and photographers and a poet.
landscape of drunkards.
Littlefield in Brooklyn.
end of month.
may fuck around.
and lay in a bed.
replaying all my poor decisions.
that lead me here.
until I break down.
and order PostMates.
as a distraction from my existential lonesomeness.
and the only person I am jealous of.
is her.