Tuesday, January 12, 2010


My hands swell, puckered with pin pricks, embroidery needle seeks to comfort beneath the ridges of my skin. How is it that I have stared at you for hours, hours and hours on end, yet, I can never envision your face?
Framed in black, you stand, minuscule stature, your face turned slightly, guiding my way and begging for a glance, for forgiveness and all that was missing in between. But I can’t, we can’t, it’s narcissistic, hurtful. An embrace riddled with regret. And deceit.
They ask of me, of you, of us, sitting cross legged in sunshine. Your name like an arrow. Bullseye, straight through my chest. I wrench out the dark striation, all coated in burgundy. And catch my breath, lies spew from my larynx, without control.
We need a warm bed, blankets as thick and as light as a cloud, to let our feet tingle, and hearts shatter onto a soft surface, tiny glass squares like a smashed windscreen, fall like snow, catching light.

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