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| i know it must have happened, but somehow i have replaced it with the
nip of an arm twisted behind my back when laughter became more of an
anger. and sometimes too, in the blank of those moments, i taste what i
can only call the number 7 caught between dry blades of grass where we
cannot whistle. in my head there's closer to blur and in the fall
betword us- i admit theres summer, fall asleep.
maybe a whisper and this before the games. how many ways can we make 24
in a stale and dreamy loft of broken threads and weary words? tell me,
as i should want it back if you will all come with me. and will you?
hum with me as if it were another? find gold stars from roots and
bloody cacoons for frame?
well, i should like to, but will not wait. for he has passed and
shadowed these once bright eyes and golden size from between
something like meek and mild. tell me, love, what is a child?
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| and i do realize that it has been near a decade since braids were
glazed of truth and apples were really blood-bitten red, but i do not
care of the telling to see for now and why. just you and i- let's
remember some, but mostly i want the now. and soon your desires will
mine conside, unless you already care more of the joker than the stride
or changing wicker lost in tide. it's up to you, so please
decide, but there's certainty that i can't hide-so with me, please
don't loose the stride for with it you will be denied of all or
most in which they've lied.
so tell me of the sewing seeds and how you plan to raid the
market. tell me who you love, but more of who loved you- don't leave
out me. remember me because i've told you already what we somehow
allowed to smear beneath salts and broken glass- i love you.
*i don't think conside is a word. thank you.
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| well, sing all you want but you'll never be that boy. you'll just be in
the grey, coughing out your stitches into the thick air of meaning.
holding up birhtday candle-colored plastic cups on the aisle of a
pains. patting me and thinking you know who i am. it's not back where
we left it, but we are. what we had so.
the moment the tiny parts began to settle i smelled two summers ago and
it made me sad- to think of remembering of the happiness. there were
less than four and still there were three. the garden stretched close
and something about a year early. i think maybe the water stopped and
the gloves put on hold. but i remember how it smelled and that was
this. it is three and all smiles in the rock of forever- not knowing
that didn't mean now. it's okay though? inconsistency is all we can
manage. i miss you and this is all i have, dear. a scent of no tomorrow
and a face away from nevermore.
| | |
| i painted of what you looked like crying. holding your shoulders and
bending out from more. you were standing behind clenched fists and i
knew only one way out, so i told you. sorrys shouldn't age and yet you
make them.
some of it was prayers. the rest was just wasting time and vomiting why not to come, without knowing you were so creative.
this or some very much of nothing.
he tumbled and opened on the ground. some can and saw. one was called
to come. amazing amazing` she stole the bag where they left his
heart. and every more the blood that pumped the heart.one found a
foothold and these are not the first.
she was swaying of the glow and i thought she might burn the purple
curtains. no, but the twine was red and so it was not purple. let us
forget at one then none i and little was known. down her emotional one.
i once knew the kin,
but it sounds worse because you can't tell she's smiling.
| | |
| the strangest thing has been happening with me. the skin on my
fingertips just catches and tears, but not in little sheets as it
should. it tears so deep it bleeds- like little knife slices. and it's
just on my left hand. and they hurt sometimes just being fingers when
they're not even raw. butchers make a good salary, but that
unrelated information.
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