Wednesday 12/30/2009 01:46:00 AM

The garden fibbing quietly. As the brick feigned to break. Butterflies sneezing as I measured the gap between. Steps upwards. Same steps down.

The pin in her wings a grisly analogy. The color in his fingers quietly accusing. It always leaves. No matter how slowly. It's always dark, but I can still see. The marker as it bleeds through. The rain as it waits. For needful cheeks.

I am small enough. And still your pocket is empty. I add up the distance. In rotten meals. A tackle box of gestures tease the things below the surface. A confetti of skin blots out the sun.

As if alone has finally found purchase in these trenches where it has festered weakly for so long. The dungeon tell its stories. In cosmopolitan histrionics. While the blind children listen. And the deaf ones stare.

A ladder under her porch light. Still nothing. A whisper beneath her window. No one. In the darkness. She wakes up every cloud. To tell them it's not morning yet.

The room is always colder than it reads.

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