my hands are all but wounded,
by yesterday’s coarse writing
woeful beside an open dormer
moon manic,
i let melodies fill parts of me that happen
to be hollow
floorboards creak
as all the bugs slither in a wallop
and then the ink starts to weep
i feel the eyes of a rookery letching me of my
solitary
a constant reminder
young hearts besieged by monochromic skies,
tragic
so cup me,
cup me as they say
in a blanket that is your
skin.
nick away your eyes, and breath
so i know you’re okay. for once, once again
with the moon dusted, abandoned sheen finds its way back to my attic where the warmth of the sun hits my fingertips as i hold my cell between them.
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