we're the rain stuck on things on cicada wings,
with nowhere to go but to say hello to the blink
of a headlight passing by on a carnival wink,
joyful in silence, in the sound of the spin,
around and around and melted ice cream.
tongues grow pink from cotton candy
and adult's lungs grow black from tar.
they'll die just as another life is starting.
i take another whiff.
fresh air, countryside, our car is so weird
and missplaced among them. trees surround,
and protect our welts and gigantic bug-bites.
i silently curse the universe and hug it
in the same cold moment, just as my mother
hands me a blanket to sleep. it's much too thin--
but I sleep anyway. exhausted.
black tar.
my first cotton candy,
and the day I stopped liking it.
I wonder what i'll ask the world when I wake up.
Quote by icaneatcatfood
On second thought, **** tuning forks. You best be carrying around a grand piano that was tuned by an Italian