So I reap the habits/habituations/habitiations/bibiations of the lives I built hazy in my recollect. Fear me. These dusty whiskey bottles my hollow marrow, these crumplescrawl pages my stained skin, these fossilized cigarette butt my teeth.
Nostalgia drunk pulls my puppet skeins and I lurch but a jerk underneath.
The sun is blooming in all the wrong ways, the roses setting all the right, contained nature hosting a cabaret in noon drag.
I exculpate fractures in architecture I did not birth. I regurgitate affection on the linoleum I ate away. Here to consume the domesticate I did not use the satisfaction of teeth. Of truth. The slow slobber of bittersweet puddled my shape into the beige. Perfect geometry of my armspan pours the dances I sieved around these corners in the dark. How do I explain to the confines of the bedroom what it will no longer embrace in negligence?
Too much has folded. The biology of nostalgia is such that renders inert when the flaps are folded, discounted breathing, comatose hysterical.
This is too many tenses for what I am to be.
