slipping words full of sleep and nascent of lilies
burdened on a windowsill unlifted. first:
reaching to touch the moon (to all its brittle bones)
she folded inward to a place of pale
and fullness and all what lies between the no other
kinder starlessness blossoming
chaos of flowers.
Cheekbones align to an array of mix-matched things forgotten (makeup, a smile) but 206 pieces come together to a thing of beauty in the void of parabens and laughter. So at 32, 2 kids, and 2 lips that only ever smiled for the lover which, also, was the time when she came to terms with the sticky thing of womanhood (too late.)
I quite like to think that I am something other than human.
Not for the thrill of knowing,
the greater shamefulness and kindred of breathing in (in)differences.
I guess I am odd in that sense, but I would fear those who don’t succumb to the oddities of the human mind.
there is a boy on his body as the fat moon pulled �from horizon with ashen to burden grayer and grayer to red sunset and cigarettes licked fresh on teenaged tongues, deepening to the scars of �new york’s salted pauperdom, and— still.
to understand when you catch life in a jar
and words are to become your butterlies
there are no endings.
"but none of this makes any fucking sense."