I wonder ponder the rest of the tings that I forgot when I was young. The taste of shyness, the hunger of the dark. Each photo is a late night kiss on the surface of the moon.
Rum in my blood
rum in my stomach
rum in the nude
Social media is the devil. It creeps.
Old eyes watch and whisper questions.
I am a closed eye of inks. No need for histories as the future is of paint and canvas the grows bigger than the skies. The sun is not the friend of the moon and murders I hang out with love the Moon. They dance bare skinked in the face of bonfires. Sweet and hungry for lusts of creativity.
My coffee cups miss the taste of Rum.
inks in eyes and coco butter kisses