Winter on the Moon

Nothing changes An afterthought of an afterthought becomes careless words in the afternoon as you give me something to hate you for. So I was nice, and it was good, until my eyes caught your indiscretions. You are a fallow, infertile fuck! This must be your soul's wasteland because the waves are giving me headaches-- tremors of heat that starve my spine. I can see premier ghosting of each memory on the horizon's face as our voices quiver with it. For each step towards losing you I'll drink the poison from your simper and you'll crow to me as always.