a used copy of e e cummings’ 95 poems 

i love it when a book smells like coffee. smells like cigarettes. like an unidentifiable existential crisis that i just happen to hold in my hand. <<< breathe in. out. again. >>> when the edges are stained and crumpled. smashed from a fistfight with recklessness or passion. <<< those are the same thing, right? >>> if this book could bleed it would. if it could talk it would scream every word at me. and oh God. yes. i would let it.

*Published by Dime Show Review