syrup Soma Two minutes to midnight I’m awake and my mouth is lonely I’m thinking of you but I don’t want you I never want anyone, not really Food will suffice Two slices of white bread Buttered and toasted crisp The syrup jar tips over With me at the counter The muffled echo of syrupy slaps Wet tongue lapping up the sweetness The squick of buttered bread against the plate My vast home quiet and dark Another solitary Sunday night in suburbia 230314 ... raze after the howling of a train strips the sleep from your frame, this one word worms its way into your head and will not leave until you let it live out loud. recognition of what your skull is saturated with, or a craving for sweetness in such a sour place? there's no way of knowing. just say it. 261101 what's it to you? who go blather from