And with a subtle wisp of chain, she quietly clanked into that dark corner of my history. Unburdened by loss, dangling a paper world of jagged scrawls and scribbles....onward to the next transparent heart. I'll just drift to the glow. She's got red hair, and an idle pen. More to shape the globe of us with touch, and not that.....artificial neon of the subterranean phantom. Not an amalgamation of fiction, not stained of the mouth, not vanished by the tiniest drops of reality. Not kept merely by the interval between a flicker of an eyelid, but by a promise. Locked in a sharp yank of blazing hair, and five compressed digits on a windpipe. In quiet moments, too, behind dirty glass blocking folded swells of lakewater. My pelican on the degas dock is fat with pride, and scowls into the cold wind with marble eyes, silently daring all to test this fire. I'll scoop them with all manner of food, and crush their rubber bones till the powder of their core layers the scene on our ocean, glowing opalesque in the current sun for a brief moment before becoming saturated by the brine of blue you love so well. Lost in the catalog of lies.
And with a decimal, he goes.
No comments:
Post a Comment