Change occurs in little cuts. The slow infection of seldom sex like rope on her wrists. Like razors under her thumb. Acquiescing every mystery to gain contract of touch. With lawyers in your kiss. Juries under your skin.
Nothing is over and everything is. The pale curtain combusts. Of monologues not fitting. Costumes that wouldn't disguise. The prison in the space us.
A hushed balloon on the edge of pop. A serene driveway forfeits the exit.
Reconciling the science of lovers. And the chaos of sex. Loving the skin and hating it. For all the people it hides from me. For all myself it reveals to them.
The fantasy of truth making dark corners light. On the brink of extinction life awakens from the grave between my thighs. The science fiction of hope telling me lies.
Friday
4/27/2007 12:22:00 AM
Sad Labels:
friends
,
happiness
,
hyperbole
,
introspect
,
loneliness
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