July 21, 2011
Sometimes if I press the tips of my fingers to my lips, I taste the bitter tears of the sky. I wonder if anyone realizes that it cries so often, and then it makes me sad, because it’s horrible, when you fall to pieces and no one cares enough to put you back together again.
So I pull out the cracked porcelain bowls I salvaged from those dusty boxes in my basement, and when it rains, I place them all around the street, in the shape of a smile, so that when the sky looks down, maybe, she’ll know, that at least she has me, that at least she has me.

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