I feel like I should be coming down from something more visceral than feeling like you're leaving.
For a month to the old country that smells of rustic run down revellry drunken and screaming at battlements.
This feeling of slight sedation and remorse that mingles with my consciousness reminds me of how blissfull it feels laying in your arms with the window open freezing the outside of our skin.
Is there another broken phrase I can give to wreck this all along the railroad tracks I laid in self destructive certain destiny.
The kind that comes from a repetition to tired to continue.
It seems like all these sunsets that we see curled up in our insular isolation will caress us for eternity that we keep in each elated moment of indifinable infinity.
As if tomorrow will never come.
On the wings of a radio playing old time music.
These books that line each hallway and living room in the house you let me live in I feel will leave on your trip.
To the place where barbarians created civilization on the backs of the meek.
To fortune filled frescoes in France.
To gothic groaning German cathedrals.
To salvation singing Spanish in romanesque.
To forever from the place I pondered would never come but rode on a horse of emotion that hasn't left.
But you will.
I know.
All things pass into darkness.
While others drift away.
So let us discard this worry of wanton love.
For peace.

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