Eden | Grayson Herrgott

VAGABOND CITY

Sometimes I sit and stare at the coils of the bunk above me
tracing their weaving pattern as if they were some sort
of pathetic man-made constellation.
And I think of all the ridiculous ways I compare you to others.
Because you promised to be everything and everyone.
You were somewhere between the beauty of Eden and the harsh truth of the apple,
begging me to take a bite so we could escape from what we had created.
So you would no longer be just one of my missing ribs
carved into something that I fell hopelessly in love with.
And we would go to some gloomy flat on the east side of town
where even the windowsills shatter and you can practically smell the death of dreams
mixed with a hint of track filled arms and seven shots of cheap jack.
Where gunshots scream through walls as if they…

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