You left early, before the rooster could even sing. Is it his voice or mine you wish to avoid? (I wish my voice was like fireworks.) I felt your skin today. Forgive me if I appear like an octupus who strives in feverish desire to spread all its tentacles through eventual pores, eager to breathe the same air they exhale but sometimes I return to being that young girl who picks the reddest apples which hang on trees. The dress you placed on our bed is the colour of aquamarines with a hint of pearl on its sleaves. Thank you. I memo
there was this woman with 12 cats perhaps, purple walls, mirrored rooms, too short fridges, horned glasses sweet tones and polka-dots in frames of mahogany or some dead plant. she told me about her kids once, that she had a son and he was something or other and the black cat was dying and the grey one was mad at the world and the white one was blind along with having a squashed wheezy nose. the rooms were purple to make them look smaller and the mirrors were to look at through gold chips so one didn't have the min
i can, i can try to replace you with sugary tea, but you were never that sweet and couldn't blister my palm. and besides, you preferred to have a lemon slice and a kiss with your earl grey and i've run out of both. i can abandon rational thought and capital letters but i can't, i can't stop thinking in drawn-out vowels. but it's okay, it's okay. i walked down a hill this morning and didn't think of you once.