Sometimes it's in the writing, not the words, but in the act of freely placing thoughts on paper.

Friday, August 31, 2012

I spilled the wine, but you spilled your heart.

As straight as the lines
between the tiles on the floor,
where I spilled the wine
and you spilled your heart.
i'm walking home alone tonight
i'm up for a thrill
the moon
on my face like a spotlight
on my lies
the wind
through my hair spreading
all my secrets.
And with eyes down i carry on
drifting into the night.

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