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Literature
this is how we are (not)
he is evanescent,
iridescent colours
on the wall with
charcoaled lips
and broken ribs,
deflated lungs lying next
to a heat locked in
cardiac arrest
his soul beat out
of his chest and joined
the ghosts outside the
upstairs window, rushing
wind calling his
name. he was,
and he was not -
i lay drowning
in covers fifty
miles below the craters
of the moon and
wondered if it
wasn't time to
take a step and
fall.
Literature
virid escent nostomania
i like my skies firstly blue
powdered antique azure;
like the dusky aged dust on chalkhill moth's-wings in attics,
the ones that-
flutter at sundown beneath the pins behind the yellow glass
i like my skies secondly green
cocksuring capriciously teal;
like the rusty old paint on beat-up millionnaires sardine-tins,
the ones that-
heat at sundown in the warm red dirt in fields of yellow grass
i like my skies thirdly red
relentlessly pumping peach;
like the scar shins on southern
Literature
Croon.
And you will have my arms around you
long after the first frost
silences the crickets
that played us to sleep
through our first summer,
and their children
and the children of theirs
will play those same songs
as creases form and deepen
beside our eyes.
And I know this because
of our childish jokes
and because of the words
we are writing.
Yes,
there’s something about
these kisses hitting their marks
from thousands of miles away
eliciting rouge beneath pale;
childlike dispositions.
I see on your face
the dumbfounded grin
I feel spreading across my own,
our bodies built
to correspond:
puzzle pieces
scattered by the hand of fate
be
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Comments3
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I love this--so powerful!