More than less than

I'm a sucker for things that come last; last lines, last words, last scenes. I will watch the last episode of a series that I've never seen before and I will read the last stanza of a poem before the first. Last things are fascinating things because they live and curdle inside of you. I think the vibes of my own terrible poems are just last lines; I want all lines to have all the gut-churning sickness of a devastatingly beautiful last line. 


I have very romantic ideas all the time and real life always gets in the way. I want to live in a candy and pink lemonade kind of world where I can have platinum blonde hair and flawless red lipstick and the strength of heart and mind to know what to say and when to say it. I feel as though I have no interest in being real, but at the same time, I miss routine when I skip it. 

a minute bends, the second ends. 
there's no way to mend this 
(if it breaks - ) 
we can't be friends. 


**


you are made of sea salt and black ink - 
impossible to save (impossible to sink)