[a half-asleep session]
your preponderant blues — beguiling my knees, have finally stained me cold. A fervent freeze, bellying out my breath to crack the fields of blades.
Because tundras are too timid; a feeling of self worth — trees living, golden grass…knowing where to grow.
But I don’t.
My infinite walls, a repeated hunger, have dried my lips white and refused me the beauty of what has become; a once seeking shadow, a mind full of petals — an apple heart…but now I can’t look up, impossible downs, repeatedly there. gravity soul. Awoken naked. Again & again while layers of my skin are pulled away by the harrowing tide of your sea. Your hands hark their call. Your fingers clean me soft until I’m still and helplessly sand.
I haven’t worried in years and now all I do is hum — finding comfort in sound; a fill of patterns to prove me whole while my white lips still call your name.
Impervious sun, prove these walls with the fractions of light and darken the now, my now where time runs thin, exhausted and cold. Line my drops to dew and melt me free.
[I get so dramatic at night.]