I stopped writing poetry. I chipped my tooth. The rest is as follows;

see my face
get it done

Dec 10
Ghost Town, Death Valley

Ghost Town, Death Valley

Dec 9
The Playa

The Playa

Dec 8

Burning Man, Black Rock City

Dec 7

New York City

Dec 6
scrotum wench

scrotum wench

Aug 19

I haven’t slept for 34 hours, because last night when our eyelids were getting heavy you suggested that we take some of the acid that had been in the freezer to get us through till morning. I rolled some joints and you swigged the tequila that had been left at my house. We kiss a lot, but we always have since the first night I invited you upstairs and into my bed where we made out for hours and hours. Swapping stories between our lips. But we talk too, because talking comes easy. Sometimes you say the things that I am thinking, and then occasionally I feel like I can read your mind. We fit together, you and I, like in that heartsick poem I wrote when I was seventeen. When dawn breaks I cry and you just smile and hold me. “These are strange minutes,” you say in the moments before I leave you, and indeed they are. You roll the last jazz cigarette while I sit on the floor zipping up my backpack come temporary closest. I’m gonna miss you, but I know that you’ll be here when I return.

Jul 5

(via pertundo)

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