Lost Invitations

Sour apples. Lessons on her tongue. Bruised bananas. Allegories of her touch. The taste is inherent. To the time in which it occurs. The woman is a reflection of the timeline the child took.

The winter. In a trembling pause. Stops. Looks at her. And admits. The reason comes after the cause.

The ladder pressed against the window tries to convince her to climb. But she just looks down. Finding herself on the ground. Up here. There are many of everything. Up here. It's easy to see. Why the bottom is there.

Coaxing her Romeo's as the poison bellows in her abdomen. Trying to wake him. So he can see. It never mattered.

The future won't forget. The window doesn't open. I cup my hands to my eyes and look inside. There is nothing.