I’ve nothing better to do than go through and read my old journal entries.
I have swallowed pale stones.
the first time we made love, i: i wasn’t sober.
(and you told me you loved me over and over!)
how could i ever love another, when i miss you every day:
remember the time we made love in the roses?
(and you took my picture in all sorts of poses!)
how could i ever get over you, when i’d give my life for yours.
I want to go home.