words by dominic riccitello

drowning in the waves of our sorrow
the floods feel like wine
a taste of you, i remember
to dance in the shallow of our past
nostalgia shames
sometimes you fall in love again
slumbering in pain
hollering their name
fucking the idea of–
 
we sometimes recall the voices of our past telling us this love will last. but to touch his hand is to die in pain. to touch his hand is to lie, but insane. to touch his hand is to feel numb again. something’s last. something’s don’t happen.