I am running out of ways to say how you killed me. But the bench where I first took your picture; the tree you hugged; the train stations: they all say it to me. Maybe if it keeps raining I’ll surface; I ain’t buried so deep. But it seems it never rains quite hard enough to unleash my filthy corpse.
Could this be what happens when I don't have a Coca-Cola™ for over a year?
Left for dead
as a traitor to America™?
No, that ain't it. I am just
trying to change
the subject.
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