Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Walking winds.

An incoherent sigh wells in the distance, brought about by the acknowledgment of a sorrowful whistle. Justification of our separateness is lost on you, words are not your best attribute, your tongue hangs in despair, unable to facilitate the desperateness that seeps from your open pores.

Cloth hangs so empty on your bowed shoulders, the line of your silhouette is one of self-indulgent curvature, falling upon and into oneself, in order to escape.

My words, my meaning, my existence, sucking the life right out of your lungs, deflated, pastel-hued party balloons. No one told me. Pink icing smattered all over your cheek, under your fingernails, hiding there with remnants of me, of my insides, left-overs from last night.

These words, they are beyond the boundaries of your understanding. A foreign object simulating into your polished and white corniced world. Ceiling roses adorn your heart, but your mind cracks, baron as the broken columns’ horizon.

I keep afloat, indehiscent.

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