Sunday, October 25, 2009

She’s cinnamon on the tongue, and deep lung air, the space between heartbeats, and dreamless seconds. She’s gravity and bent light, years of inescapable regret. She’s a bruised tattoo and a muffled note sounding sad negation, baby skin, and straight flush vertigo; queen high, aphasia, and too much wine. The beginning’s whispered word and insomnia. She’s finish line sweat and denied kisses, dew wet roses and ropes bathed in starlight. She’s candle wax and burnt offerings, a razor wrist, the atom split, lightning dance and a tear of joy. She’s a child tickled too long and quivering lip. She’s dragon chasing smoke raised in prayer, a C4 bunny, three to a match and a bullet; to whom it may concern, sucking chest wound heartbreak. She’s crime in a $4 t-shirt and yesterday’s shorts. She’s her smile and walk, cricket comfort and lumbering grace, electrochemical shock therapy. She’s the fast right hand captured in unnatural acts. She’s unclean thoughts, and unrepentance, salvation offered only in darkness. She’s the better half of a timeless equation, π factored past infinity, an easy answer to an impossible problem. She’s unknown and unknowable, an unopened gift gathering dust, another man’s name on the tag.

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