They’re fucking for dinner in the city

Sometimes the thoughts make me tired, and for this month, I walk down the street.

Need wine to get there.

To the Pacific.

It roars like every Lion should. 

And I just watch. Watch the waves crash in.

It makes sense then.

Ink to the shore, city lights down the coast.

They’re fucking for dinner in the city, but on the horizon only God.

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