One-hundred and Eighty-two: Reservoir of Regrets

Exhaling like Pilates, I sink into a hill of pillows.
My mind willows willingly. There are windows
on my head for peeping toms or peepers by any
other name. Sometimes doubts creep in while
I’m sleeping and settle into my dreams, waiting
until I wake. Let them stay; they mean less to me
than past lovers. There is a reservoir of regrets
in the corner of my room and I have one more
mistake to place in it. The keys to your missing
socks have been lit; I don’t give a shit where
they are. You are all dead stars: once bright,
now dust.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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