Where does the mind go

when the body gets lonely?
 
the art
of the slippery slope

patron saint of ambivalence
 

the evening is creased in expectation

sky a dark blue throb. Daubed

in moonshine, we bewitch
 


palms full,


and yet. Do I only exist

in the white of your eyes?


Are you out for blood?
 

Ribs swell in plain sight
, crack
me open and stare

all glossy pink and haloed

peachy, scented with hurt
 

swirled together like bathwater,

partially immersed, you rub away

the pearlescent sheen. moth's wings

in the bathwater.

your fingers glow

like the moon. this shedding.
you alchemize and
 devour.
Tonight I am not more
 than a body.
 

I evaporate so suddenly
 


you can't even walk me home.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.