They couldn’t take the wanderlust.

the exhausting sadness,
the all day naps,
three week periods,
not even a fake smile and
always a goblet.

moonshine as promised.
overgrown gerbil:
hollow but for some force fed
rum-coated water,
stale lines and pop-tarts,
a shriveling income,
hooked in my dejection,
my lifeline,
my blooming red moon,
centuries of howls and hands like
hugging me
and my tongue lolling,
just licking up all the
you fed  to me:
with love,
you said.



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