covered in candied midnight swollen with inquisition, with discovery. the only open window lets the cross currents bellow in. the drapes awake, animate in the stale, pallid nocturnal nightlights--a dress without her body. rotted wood, waterlogged, split by indifference, by time bedecks the floor. a quiet discomfort. rumble low. the ocean moans and curses itself outside it fights her light to swallow the sand.

obscurity.

it is the tapping the horse's heart. hypodermic needle presses deep, con-caving tissue and slowly disappears to extract:

.august mornings
.gilded sun rise
.petrichor
.the natural symphony


blue skies are calling. but i know that they wont last.

blue skies are calling.

but i know they wont.

last.

alas, i will do:

anything

to become happy