we sigh.
we sigh.
together our eyes sigh.
you twisted in the cables of sea weed, or burnt twine.
the smell of the smoke burns our eyes.
my legs are folded like an orgami swan.
This Monday was marked on our linen calendar.
im awkward when the windows are open and the sea waters rush in.
not awkward with you,ofcourse.
for you and awkwardness could not co-exist.
would not, even if their hands were tied together.siamese twins? Or something, or not.
.
Impossible.
you tip your hat, which I so despise, and tell me,”dearest,
im comfortable all wrapped up, even if the froth sits at my feet
And the salt ruins these penny loafers.”
i wonder if the moss will dye the carpet green.
And decide I’ve never hated the color of the trees, if so disturbed as it may be.
My legs fall asleep
while you drift away in sea-dreams.
hands on forehead, yours on mine,
yo protect my small forehead from the
Yesterdays.
The chasers.
The hunters.
The lies.
We don’t pray that our house will resurrect,because we know that smells silly.
The waves have legs and wear black bandanas,and creep like little thieves.
We were told they’d come for it,(but not us, never ever)
“He’s our keeper” is still etched into the wooden walls,as the paint cries it’s wet chippings.
I took the kitchenknife when I kept forgetting what train I’d hopped on,or
which train had haunted me til it ran me over with love.
Lovetrain.
Train of love.
“smells like lilies” I whisper to resting eyes.
and it’s all a prophetic utterance…which I think he hadn’t heard.but how I was wrong.always.
“how much more…”
water reflections have xray vision
and show me what lies behind my soaked overcoat,and pickeled skin.
Tall shrubbery like a labrynth,
Roses made of butterflies,
and trees that drip with perfume.
A fountain of liquid glass, and beams of fire.
The floods sweep our houses and trucks and cars and laptop computers, everlasting coolness, and awesome degrees,and lofty novels,awesome playlists, and long legs and puppy eyessssssss.
But these gardens are locked,and we’ll live forever.
I lay at his wrapped up feet,a ruth to a boaz.
Waters like Sunday morning hats.
But we still breathe with our lunged gills.
Asleep.
Underneath.
It’s only the beginning, for I hear Him in the wind.
“Let’s wait here.”
Posts
