The bitter desperation of death by GPS coupled with the icy first breath of air after chewing gum. The thrill of secretly hiding song lyrics between the creases of everyday conversation and the velvet dreams of being tangled in your arms ... my mind bathes in these feelings.
I am the glue that holds the world's revelations together, but not before rearranging them into incoherent mysteries and trivial sound bytes. In my dreams I faced death for an undisclosed crime. Leave it to the romanticists to say that even the homeless have a kingdom to their own. For years the realization has becoming more and more painful, that my wild imagination has become a surrogate for social interaction. Soapy memories and water that spill onto the cold tiles below...
More than satisfactory, you are golden. A hologram that keeps my head up, a whim that carves confessions into library cubicles, the most endearing smile.
Why do I laugh as I embrace madness? A towel that is still dry.
You are a face I could get used to. Wet footprints into the hall.
I name each of my gray hairs "Love." Still smells of shampoo.
Running water, white noise for a long night ahead.
Yet your burgundy thoughts are serene, already asleep in my bed.
So imagine my shock when I discovered that even sleep couldn't erase the bags under my eyes. They grace my lashes with sly smiles, laying testament to late night reads. The occasional magazine lines dictate my life. "Happiness is a byproduct not a pursuit." So I wear a dress of suburban sprawl design and boots from last night's spy games. I scratch poems onto the bedroom wall and conceal them with ponderous furniture.
A man with Tourette syndrome kissed my words the other day. My furniture overturned like fallen Jenga blocks, and his cracked lips pressed against the wall. They twitch like kicked pebbles skipping across the sidewalk.
"Collige virgo rosas?"
The hiccup of misfortune sent me sprawled across the floor, in search of better places to hide my secrets. Hula hooping in virtuous circles and in vicious circles too. My ankles have sprained a thousand times from toeing the line. Always rushing to serve others. Tonight, I invite my guests to cook the dinner.
Listening to: Draw Your Swords by Angus and Julia Stone