poetry

You Used to Be My Favorite Color

Poison nostalgia, bitter on the tongue, like a mass of lead fallen without grace intended to kill. A disease nestled in the gut. Every song transfigured and wavered to parallel the eerie pitch of your voice- hoarse and surreal. Always a lingering, resounding whisper. Harbinger of death. I never knew ghosts could fuck as hard as you did.

Trans-Europ-Express (1967)

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