Sink
aka Where were they supposed to go after this?
Their love
was like a sink
- another color named by robots
- something assholes threw unfinished plates of spaghetti in
or crusted bowls of overtly-andante sadness
burnt toast
and jacked up forks
Their love was a graffiti torn sink
built to hold history and spoons,
a partially consumed sponge
and to once in a while, occasionally, piss in
when it’s late and the world’s too heavy to walk on
and the bathroom is all the way up the stairs
don’t judge me!
there is a beach in my pocket
where time drinks alone
and the bladder gets circled by sharks
so I sink
because up the stairs is a long way to travel
when you’re this alone
and the moon insists on poking
and you’ve really gotta pee
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