i’m not sure if this room has ears, if it did it would hear my thoughts, crumbling walls, tin rooves. lost in the caramel cream of the carpet and the furnace breathing in the corner. somehow winter is creeping through the window through my flesh and stealing warmth. i’d stop it if winter wasnt so strong, so overbearing. maybe i know a lot of overbearing, the tongue, the words that push past mouthes. and all i want to do is curl up and be bigger than my body. not sure what i am missing, is it cold of me to not miss? to pull the strings of the blind and loosely woven ideas. i thought i was alone but lonely is better i’ve found than company of who. what’s the point of talking circles, crunching sentences like fast food meals. i’ll jump into the night when it’s right, while the houses buzz and voices rise. under ink and thick pulp paper, i’ll draw a line, sway, pay, and enter a door in the building i swore, i’d leave forever. i’m reading the pages of that old book, passed down from the gypsies in my family. their pasting hearts on their chests to remind them, all i have is red paint, and it just drips and pools.