soft, antiquated light.

it smells like a june evening and tastes like an october day at 3--the taste of being barely alive with the hope of longevity.

sweet and bitter.

over, under, over then under again, wove, weave, woven. appendages make and break allegiance in a slew of intoxicating imagery, nauseating verbiage swells beneath the tongue, words willing yet conscious baring any annunciation. the voyeur, the human. licentious, the dead dance with one another.

she is from the hills that let the landscape an amber sepia. crimson and twilight spindled into a fabric worn over and over. i am to wear it yet.


is it the kind quiet, lemon eyes, eyes that pool in a distant pain, the hush sound of sheathed swords and daggers slowly scratching the surface, water beading at the skin.

holding,
holding.
the sorrow in.

i am the hesitation, the anticipation, the emancipation in your breath.

but i must wait for time. wait, time.


we. are. beautifully despondent. we. are.


deconstruct,
resolutions

mountains are skyscraping buildings


seaside

sunflower
sunseed

impatiens


white and violet and rose



hands ashen, cold, pale and morbid, deep furrowed lines like the euphrates, a desert

disconnecting disconnect,
dilating dilation,
humiliating humility,

the dyad of conflictual affection,
the fleet foxes glare,
swift and complementary,
vicious yet calm a curious freight of connection.

furious freight of connection.

frivolity.


contemptuous, sanctuary.


i am a skeleton key. but too kind, i am alone.