trynke

there was once a boy who had all the write words to say with all those fancy allegories, metaphors and similes and antonyms of synonyms, like rails and snares and storms and organs and trains and drums and hurricanes and hearts, and she was only a girl with plain words, the kinds of things that are only found in piles of papers and pens, books she keeps where she sleeps, that will only break when he leaves in the morning, but she shares everything, like a boat shares a bard, like a cigarette shares a lung, like a mouth shares other mouths, like an artist shares her heart. but there is a running in her heart: not that type of b