tortured, broken vending machines: those stars, shining the most violent
-- gross. though, I was much honored to touch
once more once more once more; three, two hours were left
silently standing, doubtless to hear you saying my name
wondering if ants do feel pain when you step on them; so, do I --
I was longing; longing for you to drown; the trains stopped moving that day;
we heard riots
roaring, dazzling bubbles of waves took the best years inside
“notice how they never put vending machines on the shore”
because you craved that white sugar hiding under the light
behind the glass; out of our sight; out of reach
was it a mistake, a turning point for us to stop looking for them?
“yeah, I have never seen one at the seaside”
perhaps, vending machines, lully-buzzing at night
are meant to be broken.