Bubbles on Sad Petitions

Uneven parables betray the lessons. The window is open to nothing. The glass is broken. Tall ladders fever the clouds. With suspicions of rain. The weather is us. As we tiptoe through the weakening thunder. The parallel suggests. Burnt ends. Raw middles. Tender with blood. As we feast anew.

Red numbers in the dark box tell their secrets to skin. Worms multiplying beneath her flesh into thousands of itches.

The junction. Her acquiescence. The fuse always there at the base of her thighs. A universe of sparks yet to ignite. A parable. A window open. The glass choking on the darkness it has bitten.

A caution. Like coiling satin at her ankles. The throttle of decision pauses the wind. And she can see. All the pieces to be collected. And those that are to be left behind.