base of an eggshell in a portrait of painting she is pure canvas had I been a painter she would direct turpentine
and in that tear, everything broke every shard of pain, every loss the losses yet to come her voice, her heart caught
for the beauty of the day we wept huddled mass one, singular in thought we
it was a blank page. Her hardened gaze caused no words to appear. No flourishing language to embellish the explanation.No distractions to explain the lack of written monologue. Not even...
starlight sings silver catalyst for dreams the woosh of the window unit roars with smokey tang on my lips, I shi… shoulder to door pane, perceptions…
my heart has rooms that sigh filled with dust of disuse, of mis… Waking world
The touch that spans length and difference I feel the distance that he holds captive in heart and… one reach, one touch
She saw them fishing poles in hand, walking fro… Fingers, gnarled, crippled with the passing of age. The skin around their eyes, a cany…
He speaks with a purpose that dema… with soft, soliloquy of word to sh… the emulsification, the blood of b… and women carrying the weight of m… Storyteller. Anthropologist.
I list their names on my heart Count them... ad nauseum, infinity… They, who sew my shroud. I list their names on my heart They, who released it
the taste of purple inundation eatery fingers flowing in scratching clutch we hold
his exit, his entrance stars in solemn shades countdown in pink orbs we, burning out suns commencing solitude
She walked the raised concrete streets, built from the backs of someone whom she didn’t know. She walked the raised concrete streets, surrounded by creatures of origin. The rain cascade...
yes... a million times over, I sai… to him, to them to everyone, to no one I gave pieces of me Perhaps
The metaphorical heart Burnt in frozen grasp As the stale air, travels, labored far from memories, moments of horror caught
