Words bury me with their letters. Smooth lines and bleeding edges. Sink into my pores.
Empty words and heavy spaces. Pin me down between blue lines.
White stained black with ink. Sinking in to make it something new.
Old words scarring over with jagged lines.
Cross it out. Start over again.
Your words go tingling down my spine; tiny dandelion wishes
and gasps. For air.
Broken tangents and quivering lips,
and pieces of my mind got lost somewhere
around the adjective. Dizzy.
Your words have claimed the breath already
and I cannot say a thing.
The rain drips down your skin,
running over your hills and bends and flooding in the valleys.
Breath drifting in and out,
filling and emptying the spaces in between us.
No sunlight today to dance on your skin,
but you glimmer in the darkness,
Pure, radiant, angel of death.
Sometimes when we are hurt,
the sore lingers and we scratch at the scab.
We demand sutures but the wound is too old.
There is nothing to be done for it now but to stop scratching and let it heal.
We know that there is nothing to be accomplished by itching;
what do we hope to gain from it?
But yet, it itches so much.
Been working on “Caroline” today