growing old

Didn’t know the meaning of the word, another mindless crime, another curtain I’d rather stay out of danger, the loneliest number since the number one and I just don’t care any more, just can’t get any relief. When I search a faceless crowd this summer I hear the drumming, words mean just what I want them to. The air is getting heavy. The number on the matchbook is old and faded. Think all my thoughts. She thinks I’m crazy but I’m just growing old, the Cuervo Gold, the fine Colombian.

Lord Malinov, Song of Songs

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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