numbers. the institution of skin. the mountain becomes. the distance like mascara. Eyes closed. Sight determined. the weather in her back pocket spilling over.
it's always too much.
Pinwheels chasing the wind. One storm at a time. The dead from their graves debating the fever of the sun. Try to remember. How close it is.
Monsters in their nightgowns. Tracing gravity. Polishing their fangs. Hungry thieves trapped in that dusty dollhouse.
it's always too little.
Counting. brittle conjunctions between when and how. a panic of flesh. to reason with the cruelty of sight. the skin's trapeze. reaches. grabs at. but seldom catches.
Denim thighs rub the bevel. raw corners turn her. her corduroy lips. flaunt their friction. tentative sparks fumble with the fire. stuttering in her head.
it's always nothing. until it isn't.
Tuesday
8/21/2012 01:36:00 AM
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