Literature
and i
it is
too late
and i
had forgotten
to be, and you
had forgotten
how to love and i -
a pile
of throw aways,
a mess
of nothing and you,
a line of things
unwritten and unsaid and how
am i supposed to tell you now,
speaking to dust and spiders
locked inside of me,
and you, always too much
(i can't breathe) and i
had forgotten
how to be