Flip through your Rolodex of days
and tell me which you remember best.
I could tell you of these days most vivid,
but they are so near to my heart I don’t want them to
dissipate like the last gasp of steam from a pipe.
I could tell you what my bones are made of
but it wouldn’t matter much since you can’t feel them.
They wake me in the night, as restless as horses before a storm.
The morning sighs a turquoise dialogue
and I lose myself in this distance,
gladly.
Heart as eager as my feet, pulsing forward and faster
until my hair becomes tangled and tucked under my ribs.
*[They are made of lost seams, mulled carbon, memory, and flight.]
-ct
Indolence’s whiplash cracks
like 16 gauge steel forced
through 20 gauge lips.
Which might not sound so bad,
but imagine putting a hole
in your lip
with a sewing needle,
even a big one.
Now try slipping,
all nice and easy,
a pencil through the same gash.
Oh how I suffer for fashion.
–
tjq
