This Poem Is Incomplete.
she is running, running.
she leans, she leans.
i am ablaze in the dust shes swept up to disguise her exit,
she fumbles for excuses and cold responses.
she is hiding beneath a mountain of waste;
her waste.
wasted light.
she fumbles and i fall.
she spits at me and i clean the dribble off the side of her mouth.
she throws stones,
i make them into poems;
always for her.
i am a stupid person,
a waste.
her waste.
wasted light.
