Absence of matches in Self Care.
Better than wooing someone who has a theory to tell.
Changeable moods.
Dead trees. Dead cowslips.
Everywhere: cheap rain ponchos, wrinkled.
Foodies gave me Rafael 30 (blue tick), 17,488km away (probably Brazil).
Gay isn’t progressive enough, I think. Gloomy is, I think.
Having a moral to unfollow is so ’80s.
In Let’s Be Friends: ‘You’re out of users in your area.’
Just to be clear, I’m looking for friends interchangeable of weather:
kissable, fierce, wild. King-sized is a plus.
Looking good, looking grey, looking rough, thick,
mild. Looking and reading You Are the Weather, but almost
not noticing the rain has seeped through the window cracks.
Of course, time feels endlessly open in extreme weather.
Prompt on profile: I’m a grown up. Also me: ferrofluid
quickly soothing your hard drive. There’re times I would
rather be self-engaged like a gay kendama. I don’t mean I’m some
sex toy. Let’s not get mechanical; my science is bad. The storm
tracker is tricking me with its orange red spiral rain bands.
Umber soil from deep reveals when the wind uproots the trees outside.
Vaguely, very vaguely, I remember having used your photos
with no shame as if I they were my own on
X, just to prove fair trade is a myth. Thank
you to your slicked-back hair, ink-splash tattoos, your
zero doubt in making me someone others wished to blow.