She once knew the harmony of words- rose-pink and yellow, birthing brilliant coral. She once knew how to merge them- raw honey, aromatic lemon pound cake tea. She once tasted their emotion- life, love, death&all… Now they escape her. And she wishes to know them again.
I, human, also known as charlatan, surmise that this too shall pass. Obfuscating our own eyes with our own beauty, & our own lies, while the world burns, waiting for its own time to see that pale, white unicorn, pointing its horn at a red giant. Too late for latent gratitude.
Dark moon of your eyestrembles my thighs.Sweet velvet fingertips.Our futures sway in the starsA mirage, a long forgotten wishthat this’ll last forever.We hold hands whilewatching slasher flicksin our PJs on the loveseat,rain tapping at the window,and make that last forever.
I’ve been feeling old. Came in surrounded, gonna die alone. When did winter come? This world is so damn cold. The sun’s been getting bold. It left, took my heart, like a bar of gold. With your summer gone, who’s gonna save my soul? All your doors are closed, shut out the fire, keeping in […]
They part ways at the Sea of Indecision, her reaching for his hand, him leaving a kiss on the wind. Years pass. The sea dries away. She tells her son of red flags, of surrender, bad omens, perturbation. “But could you swim?” asks her son.
We set a date- Depression and I. “Come in and please sit down.” “You’ve been here far too long,” I said. “It’s time I put you out.” He laughed and shrugged, “I’m not done yet. I haven’t tired your soul. I’ll tackle that first, my dear. And then you’re free to go.”
She pounds it, drills it into his core. He is nothing. Trash. This is her language- a mother’s love. He learns to speak it as the years pass. And when he finds love, he tells her, “You are nothing. “Nothing without me.” This is his language, but she doesn’t speak it…
Rough draft, through his tattered curtains, where he lay upon shattered glass. He’d promised to rewrite this part of his life. In honesty, he’d hoped it’d pass. No one thought he had much to say. Not one, not one person warned him. He grabs himself and writes away…
There’s power in your words, seasoning in your wind. Bit drafty is your love, but tastes like cinnamon, tastes like trust, like moonshine, sunrise, us…
“Hm?” Yellow inquired, eyebrows arched high. “She told me to #pluck my chin hair before I considered talking to her.” “Ah.” He glared at the woman, cringing at the other end of the attic. “Ey, lotsa lady werewolves have-“ “Who cares? We got dinner. Skin and clean it.”