Your face slips from your own skin
and you're a surgeon mind you,
not a vagabond who couldn't identify
himself after getting lost,
So you start having tattoos
of your pristine memories...
one on your hand, one at your
torso... another on the neck
until this whole body of yours
is a memoir, capable of selling
itself in an auction, at a fair price.
And you hope the buyer is a writer,
What's better than having Stories
for every memory, right?
So you wait for someone to offer a deal,
you wait and wait and wait,
it is evening now and the room
has no buyers left.
The place, as quite as an oakmont
freeway on a December night.
You go back home in disdain,
but you've forgotten the stories by now !
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