Each minute thumbed hours’ rumour and into the numbered dark she tumbled. The tin boy rubbed his tin ribs until he tired of this, then he rose. He gave her the sleepy eyed fingers, as cast off, as discard, as hex. He wore penned pentagrams on his palm, shook his head on her and went.
Heavy cloud, no lovers’ star. Blanket anger, rainfall and road cones. She tried to outstare herself in the glass, but found that her heart wasn’t in it. Her ages were repeated Russian dolls, lacquered, depleting. She held the green light in her skin, from the road, above her cheekbone, and the tone was far from complementary. The shadow wash also too cloud heavy.
The city began to gather. It reared at the glass, like aspic in the aisle. Wanton, it leered Letitia’s unseemly unravel, and at her clothes, it nosed her wax stank. Her teeth began to loosen their beds. Just keep breathing.
She squatted the far stall and imbued the thin vapours and exhaled them thinner into the foul bowl water between her legs. She blackened the foil with flame, dozed, and rubbed for awhile her head.
and when i sleep, luella[iv/xii]©2019