February 2012
6 posts
I am an incomplete thought. The one on the tip of your tongue, at the end of your gun; the red rim of the rising sun.
Don’t touch my hands please; I’ve just got them comfortably lonely you see.
I wake in the den of a wolf, spake into the heavy black night; a whimper crammed to the back of my throat. Am I the sacrifice, or the take?
I want to fall into the deep with you. You. You? So elusive and undeterred by the rules of existence because you, don’t.
She’s crying nude; cosmic ooze beneath her. Priestess, petrified.
A cut you can’t doctor with your mouth. It bleeds much too quickly to clot with the tongue. Sensory assurance; you’re still here.