she wrote a poem once and, maybe deluded, i thought it was for me. she'd written nine hundred poems in her time, but this one was for me. i looked into her grayed eyes that day and they were like cameras to me. i looked at her lips and that night i heard the words … Continue reading like cameras to me.
I am the ghost. I am the breath of a ghost. I am a sigh. I am the blink of an eye. I am a dream. See these headlights and tail-lights? - I am the nothing between. I am the silence, the siren, The thought and the theme. I am the second hand, the minute, … Continue reading Never Been Seen.
Barely rested, but with fevered beats beneath my skin, I drew her supposed aroma in and out and in again and all around this sleeping creature my world contracted and expanded; and I wondered of her dreaming. To pass the time I figured cracks, pretended craters, dead seas, frontiered charts across her ceiling. On … Continue reading Imagined Matins.
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