Do you hear when the lonely house cries?
It goes beyond the forests…
The failures ache like autumn winds
and the windows wait for the rains from your wet pussy.
Here all the parachutes come…all of them take a shower and all of them feel the feelings of unknown,
the smudging juvenility.
The good old days of running the whole field with a whole lot of wondering.
There’s a tree outside,
old with sunset,
pampered with birds,
and at night it still sings the most ridiculous song…
the song between your eyes and my eyes,
the song of being in each other’s memory.
There’s nothing else…
Many times you fall in love with deserts not for it’s void but for it’s ability to accept that.
Trust me, you don’t need anything else other than that bruising house and that middle aged tree.

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Photograph: EyeEm

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