rotterdam
it was not raining when i walked home but feel my skin—the gardens are still dying. did you hear i sold my soul? the gardens are dying but i sold my soul without considering the sparrows sold for a penny in the place you come from.
in the beginning of all words, this ought to be a love poem. i have owed you a love poem for months, maybe years. who would have thought that you and i are two dimensions of the same moment in time. i swear, in the beginning of all worlds, this ought to be a love poem. but it was not raining when i walked home and thus i remain parched ruins.