It's like going back to when we wore our mothers shoes, clanking around to hear the chimes of our souls take beat against the crystal ground. China sets bottled in boxes licked with tape, peeling to be more than just ourselves.
Without warning to lift up our cups hot water pours over itself, leaving clumpy wet sugar sprawled out against the grids of our maps. Suddenly, as if everything wasn't really anything, we're taken. The lust for wings is surrendered. Like shapes that are torn by the sharp side of the moon we realize that even we can't be more than just stars. And not even the type that are drooled over by astronomers. As numbered bodies we will give off sapless balm, raped, under the sunset of our age.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment