LPiA-25 Nov. 1

[Weeded]

I miss the cold cutting into my extremities
like my feet were made of cheese.

Journey south enough, you'll find
the seasons blend together like
sunlight were Falernian wine,
the sky a cage-cup finished white,
and moisture moisture.

I miss playing a round
of football with the horizon,
the Moon coming up as quickly
as she goes down.

How little the Nile sparkles
compared to the sea
but for the eyes of crocodiles.

fuckin sha-weet