Friday, April 29, 2011



I being a woman
And honest
With or without a vestige of alchohol
Love the way you hand me a glass,
Pull out a chair,
Belittle my perfected naivete
But do not hand me your keys and cars
And books and pillows
I’m sure to change them, reshuffle, rearrange them
Into such alien art that everytime you reach home you’ll feel
Like on some morbid street
So that when you dash out and meet me on the streets

You shall feel at home


little boxes said...

there's so much honesty in this.
and so conversational that i can almost hear someone say this aloud to someone over the phone on a rainy night when there's nothing else to talk about.

Droopy Rose said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
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piya said...

Versha Verma said...

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