Broken Beak
nausea
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scribbled lines on a bit of paper
i held in my hands
and then i slowly read aloud
to no one but myself
sometimes
we
speak
in
different
languages
we're better off
poorly painted portraits leading way to the train station
you come crawling down concrete
and i'll be waiting
we're heading home
and i might be thinking of red lights
that'll slow us down