at the burial of cliches the storm brewed in a teacup. stirring it you reached for sugar. dressed in black, we’d come early for the opera. sitting in potholes where her voice wouldn’t reach us, the flower on your breast is undressed with mud. a tragedy, a tragedy, O it’s one we could not avoid. […]
pretending anger crouched in a corner and watched from shutter-blind teeth the unwilling spreading of a smile control. control sits in the rolling chair writing swear words in cursive. in the same room we both pretend to be uninterested and let the flames lick away at our fists.
crystalline- which was our bond surely eternity must have been erased when we crossed the line in the wake of our collapse you forcefully shed my skin surprisingly it was all just as expected: my true nature – it remains too beautiful too beautiful for you to behold.