you could tell me who i am;
i've forgotten that i ever
wanted to know.
but i trust you,
and i think you'll
do what's best.

watching me sitting on
the rise
and fall
of your chest
while the tears rain down on
me from some indistinct eye;
grazing over your naked skin.

what good comes of truth?
what else but a melancholy
state of beckoning to an
obvious end?

wearenaked.
and truth is cold.

06/08/2003

Author's Note: could definitely use work. help? and a better title, any suggestions?

Posted on 06/08/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams