(no subject)
the mirrors ugly with numbers run silver, bend the light that comes in from the open windows, that old friend affixed with age like a pitted plum. i hold the red fish in my hand & offer it to the sun. i open my bones in search of prayer, & find this, this arch of my tongue, the star of swallowed space.
the truth is, i have not felt fully awake since you left. the mirror now tilts my face. all day, i pace the corridors, touching the doorknobs. the empty house is alive with the song of you. the ancient hooves of the horses of brown silk sting the earth. they remember the sound of red wine sliding down your throat, the sound of glass.
the truth is, i have not felt fully awake since you left. the mirror now tilts my face. all day, i pace the corridors, touching the doorknobs. the empty house is alive with the song of you. the ancient hooves of the horses of brown silk sting the earth. they remember the sound of red wine sliding down your throat, the sound of glass.