C’mon…really its O.K.

c’mon….its ok, go ahead–
chum around like the loverless glutton you tend to be
the trees are swimming with apples, the roots flexing their auspitious muscles
and you are still.

bland apprehentions walk through your mind
running in time with the waltz that the oboe player insisted on playing
the orchestra pissed, rather had played the ragtime standard
deceptions in return for another dear diary response…
let me lay on you…
you can sit in me…
delightful jubilee destined for jeers

coffee tends to be blacker when no cream or sugar is added

suppose-ability = hurt expectations


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