every place is a small town needing to be left, by pdlyons


you think you know where you want to go,
unable to know where you are?
small spaces hold a universe of ache.
leaving is all I’ve ever known,
all I am ever able to truly do.

when you are walking down streets
and I no longer do so,
does it mean you are any more there than I am?
does it mean that you’re leaving and mine
some how differ?

we can not fit any more into any space than the universe,
and that too leaves its own ache down it s own street.
all there is, no guide to us
or any one else for that matter.

like some

Micky Corbo hair do

angel wings

tribal dowries

cool tree in yellow back from the end of the year

crows like days between the worlds

all lemoning and impossible to capture.



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