Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Regina Spektor, my love.

The flowers you gave me are rotting and still I refuse to throw them away.
Some of the bulbs never opened quite fully; they might, so I'm waiting and staying awake.
Things I have loved I'm allowed to keep!

The papers around me are piling and twisting, Regina the Paperback Mummy, what then?
I'm taking a knife to the books that I own, and chopping and chopping and boiling soup from stone.

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