(a collaborative poem)
Lot#001 There are too many kinds of failed love to account for, but let’s try.
Rumor and hidden remorse nearly killed me. A jet lag soup. Your manga hair-sweep curls along like the open ocean. Taking a romantic drive through the cemetery, that man with a flashlight how’d he find us?
Dreaming of knights and pineapples. Sipping beer around the campfire. When you’ve let yourself down like that, every new misfortune is still your fault.
Who will visit me when it’s just me in the waiting room awaiting my passage? Violence is more than a memory. Letters were sent, as proof.
Names are thankfully finally forgotten. Or recorded over. Or never been there.
A red light means recording is happening. If there’s no red light in the first place, it’ll be hard to recreate actual events in event if a trial. Clues are shiny and exclusive. In case you are wondering, they don’t lead anywhere. Well, maybe next door to that.