Sad Labels:
happiness
,
hyperbole
,
introspect
,
lovers
Dead tears still blink like the warm dew between her thighs. Where her dress cuts her in half. Separating the doll from the clothes. In a throw of sighs. In the skip of words across a river of skin.
Thrown.
Into a potluck of manias. Bribed by the bridge to destroy it. Children of children. Thick outlines of lovers to color in. With our lost crayons. Grey pages drowned in the before. The after of having lived.
Treaties with devil. A calm roulette. Pasting those flower petal back onto their stems.
There are ways to measure. The distance, but not the depth.