Would you love me for the hedgehog-bun I make
out of my hair on Sunday mornings...
The memory of him
tracing doodles of...
Raindrops falling all around
lips caressing with no bounds...
Your soul is a harvest gold
phone booth...
I left England back in the old age,
belonging to the same iris's, soul...
This disposable camera
is ours, as long as it lasts...
Right now I'm sitting in a coffee shop
where the hipster thumbdrive playlist...
Toys
they spread it all over the floor...
When I am little in mind
or little in forgiveness...
Hurry up.
They're here...
Inside my blood, Pluto freezes
with such a violence before...
I recover your details,
caressing the small wonders...