I miss you in tiny earthquakes.
In little underground explosions.
My soil is a hot disaster.
Home is burning.
You’re a lost thing.
On April 22, 2014 at 1:48am
(Played 20,013 times)
(now I’m even losing my name—it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours)
Thou, whose sad heart, and weeping head lyes low,
Whose Cloudy brest cold damps invade,
Who never feel’st the Sun, nor smooth’st thy brow,
But sitt’st oppressed in the shade,
On April 20, 2014 at 8:41am