They were lying in the dark,
by a set of iron stairs.
He spotted a hawk,
talons digging into her calf.
It’s eyes were rubies.
There was this puddle,
by his head.
He imagined it tasted like battery acid,
or the side of her neck.
In her mind,
she translating the alphabet.
The one scratched on her
Once upon a nightmare.
lying by her side.
His hand was in hers,
from that green crocus.
The one they had shoved down their throats.
She thought she saw a butterfly,
stuck to the underside of his wrist.
It was orange.
Your novel recoils,
wounds of God,
Aloof characterization of beauty,
a text creature of dramatics.
Conflict of brilliance,
I saw her the other day.
Her French lips and Italian eyes.
She was just sitting there,
and I was walking by.
I wanted to see her thorns, her secrets.
But she was so red.
And I was so hollow.
I saw her again.
Her dark, very German hair and articulate, old English eyes.
She walked right by me.
Secretive and gorgeous,
I wanted to hear her voice, her thoughts.
But she was so other.
And I felt so normal.
Dreams are vain, vile creatures,
blind to everything that is not of their own making.
Strutting around, piled high with foolish nonsense and glittering promises.
But we love them anyway.
Orphaned from birth, they spend their lives searching for someone to nurture them.
We just so happen to be equipped for the job.
We ourselves are born with holes in our hearts and ghosts in our heads.
We as a species, are naturals at brave and blind perseverance.
So who is better to dream?
We don’t have much of a choice in the matter, it is what we were born to do.
We are also orphans, in a way.
Created out of sand,
so they say.
A grainy mannequin,
in the image of what we “should” be.
I’d rather just dream.
He dabbed a sprig of liquid lavender on one wrist.
Then the other.
His mirror gawked at him,
struck blind by such brazen behavior.
The crystal bottle shook as his hands did,
which made replacing the cap difficult.
His father didn’t know.
His father didn’t know about the silk scarves stuffed into a small slit in the upstairs mattress. His father didn’t know about the trips to the theatre district, and the lace costumes she had tried on.
Was there no mercy? No understanding?
Of course not,
this was a man’s world.
There stands time, not as a grandfather, but as a threadbare coat. Thrown on the bed, or the vertebrae of a chair, waiting. Time waits for no man, but birthed patience in the stead of something greater. This coat, a needy thing, rejects all who wear it, particular to a fault. And whose fault is it? Is it he, worrying at the dregs of his morning coffee? Is it she, plucking mournfully at the whiskers of her cello? Or is it the unfinished manuscript, curled against the banister, forgotten? This coat, with ears upturned, eyes tarnished, and smeary skin, it neglects to mention who it waits for. The thing retains glorious roots and an empty tongue. This vain supposition lies misbegotten, its birth not of the womb but of the mind. Can you feel it now, tugging at your sleeves with its dull teeth? Chipping away at your eyesight, a malignant Michelangelo. Immortality is a broken sewing machine, pinned to the eyes of the beholder. I think you’ll understand when you’re older.