the sheets grow damp like autumn leaves.
and my cheeks are cold.
and my hands,
are guilty.
it seems so long
since ive been
opaque enough,
to hold you in.
to move you.
to bring you back.
to this room.
time has changed,
but these curves
in my hands
stayed the same.
they have not removed themselves
from your imprint.
or your warm impression
against them.
they always fit so perfectly
on your shoulders.
holding close
on cold nights.
your taste still burns my mouth.
that salty of your neck
under the sheets.
it still strips me
down to the translucence
that keeps me from you.
the blank canvas
i am,
shines brig
if
dkjhsdf
4one
s&&&&&grated
steckstuckstockstack
whateveryoulikewhateveryoulike
he
said
so
slo
lie
(e?)
i will never lie to you
he said
he said
lies are on my tongue and not my hands
he said
ha.
he.
ha.
ha.
he.
ha.
between the river and inside the stone, sarcophogus fresh for saintly appendix, a walnut shell (once cracked, twice removed, three times consumed) bore a hole through the sand for the sake of oxygen. the scales got the best of the sponges, running them through coral furnaces and sulfuric dependencies, leaving in their wake an extinguished lust and a penchant for nonsequitur syllables. nonanon, nonanon, nonan