You are thirty-two
years of fingers fumbling
with a razor blade
and a cigarette lighter,
a slow dive from some great height,
a missile, a shooting star,
a beautiful and special disaster.
Prodigal of smiles.
You are thirty-two
years of fingers fumbling
with a razor blade
and a cigarette lighter,
a slow dive from some great height,
a missile, a shooting star,
a beautiful and special disaster.
