perfect lie

This summer has consisted of nothing important. The sun beats down and people still revolve in and out restaurants, staring blankly outside as if looking at a ghost of themselves in twenty years. The street always smells of litter and roasted coffee. This city is hollow, yet I cannot leave.


I have dreams my hands are old, and I cry at the sight of them.


I once fell in love with a writer, and realized all at once, I was in love with his writing, which wasn't him at all.