“I don’t remember lighting this cigarette and I don’t remember if I’m here alone or waiting for someone”
— Leonard Cohen, Book of Longing
Self-loathing Sunday creeping in and the sun is a lemon coloured lollipop right now and I want to put it into my mouth and then kiss someone cute.x
the promises we never return to.
They stay in our mouths,
roughen the tongue, lead lives of their own.
Houses built and unwittingly lived in;
a succession of milk bottles brought to the door
every morning and taken inside.
And which one is real?
The music in the composer’s ear
or the lapsed piece the orchestra plays?
The world is a blurred version of itself —
marred, lovely, and flawed.
It is enough."