The stars were a calamity that shook in my ribs, glittering fool’s gold in Pandora’s breast, the milk of mothers spilling into the universe like a slit vein My voice was a lunar eclipse in the shadow of an empire; a wheel to Apollo’s chariot eight spokes like eight pillars, a mill churning the waters. But in the froth I saw the clouds hand-whipped into shapes, and I saw fog descending like blindfolds; I saw Everest shivering. I saw apologies like corpses - trees felled to cup handwriting like stillborns - necessary casualties in war. I read that apology like a love letter, as if words could build bridges, but the view out of my window is still bare Apollo peers in without blinking, and I burn
we clench like cogs, exchanging breath and seconds, ticking. they call it kissing, or snogging. the latter feeling slightly more appropriate, (a bit rougher round the edges) but still not quite right. because under the halogen light it feels more like acknowledging a common feeling of existence and the aching lack of sharing it. like praying to the same secular emptiness with our mouths, not lavish, but necessary. more like a noise than a sound, less like a game than a question, charged with passive urgency, we were. just. ticking. then. parting like tomorrows we skipped into morning. (plugs are temporary. ticking is jarring. it is hard to be made aware of your own being alive and the few breaths that you actually decide to share.) the rhythm of lonely is best tracked by tongues. but now I remember why I choose not to wear a watch. and now I remember just how much more it was than all of this and how I'm describing it, that's all just bullshit. it's the