January the sixty second

It’s a symphony, the pit a pat that’s raining in on me and the silence is an awful blow when I close the bedroom window. The Winter melody makes the melancholy tuneful and she said, ‘…just a spoonful..’ but the sugar never was as sweet as being out there on the street in the rain…

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Washing machines

I am next to nowhere now and somehow it feels quite right, there’s nothing like being savaged or being the salvage of the night. I was the last option, the take it or leave it, she left it and me lonely. But I woke into the sunlight of a novel I was reading which ended…

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