2042.

Sometimes I want to
rub my mouth against yours just
to taste those feelings.

2041.

If only your faith
could dress my skin and shore up
bones for safekeeping.

2040.

The emptiness of
pursuit just leaves hearts set to
stasis. Loneliness.

2039.

A borrowed culture
to fill in the cracks of what
is always missing.

2038.

Your words mimed out as
solace are instead just an
art of slow murder.

2037.

Usurpation a
dream for beaten conquerors.
Too many windmills.

2036.

This heart was built on
lies and only understands
procrastination.