orders up.

Its fall, again.
Its nostalgic and awakening at once.
I dont know what to say to you, I dont know how to make this fair.
Its not like I care.
Because I'd like to think that I don't. Ever.
And my hands are dripping oily dreams, splattering sickness all over the screen.
this is not a poem, just a short recap of the situation, you see.
I'll never write a poem about you.
 I lied before.
When you sit there and look at me and I cant really make out your eyes out of the whole picture Im scanning and searching for them but they perished out of my sight.
What do you look like?
What are they today?
Are you going to ask me again how wide your pupils are?
And Ill sink like little boats of butter down the filthy waters of your eyes.
If I knew any better Id get my presence straight, I'd stop thinking and my existence would get that much more bearable.
Its fall again, now I have expired.
I suppose that when you are you and your hands are not dripping oily regrets on the keys, you make reservations for the next life,
 tip the waiter this time, you might score a better table
a better seat
 the next time around.






Fall moments are so precious.