Is it an epic slavering beast that drips these drops from high to low, the moisture needed to form from scattered ashen dunes the casual shadow of me left lounging in the aborted shade of some kneeling tree? Phew.
I don't know. Spit dries. Then what?
When the sky calls back its savor, will I gasp in arid wonder at my brief spell of togetherness-- when all the electric pulses paused in tandem their celestial pursuits to make me, for a tic, before shaking apart to hide in caves as crystals, or Fraggles or whatever your nose just Hoovered?
Yes. Sure. Why the fuck not? I like it like that. The little bits of you left on me, and to be fair, vise versa, make us partners in this shakedown. 50/50. My thieves honor is as good as yours, never fear.
Put down your guns, your garters, your gingerbread walls and know that whatever makes you breaks you-- it shakes you where you stand, shivering in the winds that can't care.
And your poems are pennies. Their copper stolen, collected on your busy hands and sturdy knees while you bumble amid tilting flowers already mined a million times by busier hands and sturdier knees.
Does that sound like Doom's gong on this fake-out of a Spring day?
I hope not.
Because this year feels good in my hands already; I feel like writing.
6 comments:
and you just did, my love. quite eloquently so.
You make mewant to pick up my sword and put my pen aside.
illyria: thank you, my dove.
pen: oh no. i think you'd mos def win in a fight even sans sword.
It's just against my myself tho, so I'm a winner and a loser, no matter the weapon.
I want your skillz.
good news on the writing tip. but be gentle. the 08 is young and doe eyed as yet.
pen: winning at loosing is the new black.
liam: young as a fox and twice as ginger? that'd be lovely.
and i'm always gentle. promise.
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