Stick Out The Rounds And Just Wait For The Count

Happiness to my best friend is a chunk of a bone that he forgot he buried under my pillow. I want that type of life. The four-hour memory kind. Where every time I hear the word "outside" and "car" I get ecstatic. It's not that ignorance is bliss, it's just that a lapse in memory can be the greatest gift on the worst of days.

No one understands his whines. I'm not even sure if I do half of the time. I just know that I want to make it all better. We have our own language. One made of late night kicks, and licks on the face. He buries his nose at my feet, and sometimes, in the pit of my arm. The worst of me somehow helps him relax.

Artificially sweetened limelight. Been reading too much Coelho to the point that I have a new obsession with legacy, being murdered, and seaside towns. Gotta get out more.