One slip, a falling trick, then she’s in his arms, a CRASH.
He traces her Picasso cheekbones. The back of his hand comes away, a smear of soft yellow glitter.
She frets about the smear. Do I still look alright? She fears.
It looks fine. But then the eyes. Can you see them? She asks. They follow her. There are so many.
He doesn’t know what to say. Can he make it up to her, in any way? He’s not sure what he did wrong.
There was Shakespeare on his tongue,
and a butterfly in his lungs.
Both made his dangerous.
Both rendered him unloved.
He was afraid
of what to say,
of what to feel.
It all got stuck in his throat,
a clump of paper and honey.
Nothing was easier to swallow.
Innocence was one thing,
but courage was another.
To pick up the sword,
to shout into the abyss.
He was new to living,
but he didn’t want to waste it.
The hilt was supple in his palm,
so were the words to that song.
The one in the back of his beautiful mind.
She had red earlobes,
and purple puncture wounds.
Lying on her side,
I asked her name.
She seemed used to the question.
There’s a demon in your television,
and an angel in your mouth.
I can taste your lungs,
black as anything.
sanctifying your sins.
with your collarbone and leather wrists.
I can feel your poisoned vertebrae,
quivering beneath my hands.
cutting off my breathing.
Turning me blue.
I watch him,
him and his terrible hands,
It’s late hour,
too early for intimacy.
The breaklight’s long gone,
for a copyright.
I recognize her,
her and her devilish thighs,
too late for casual conversation.
Shoes on the sofa,
hearts lying on the stove.
Everything is alive.
Why is it that we are born with such imagination,
only to have it taken away when we grow older?
There are some of us left, it is true.
But we are not the mighty,
Weeping, strange angels we become,
crying over those who could have been and tortured by the veneer of existing.
What kind of life is that?
When we could use dust to fly instead?
We could do extraordinary things, it is true.
a good play,
may just unlock the secrets of the universe.
There she stands,
a pillar of salt,
Her lungs were taken from her,
because she looked back.
She with her eyes like desert pearls,
now covered in sand.
How dare you,
dripping ink on her canvas like she is something to be written. There is no story here.
No one wins the battle and the war does not exist. It is only her, standing there forever because she dared.
And when the night finally falls, tears drip from fingertips,
only you do not get to be the one to wipe them away.