(no subject)
.
so sitting in the weave, running my fingers through and inbetween pieces of crème string, like when we were children, our knees bare and scrapping against the cold drab concrete of your drive-way, the back-yard, the front-garden. mother with the titling lemonade, the burning sun slips behind the clouds and we'd uncrumble chalk against the pavement drawing perfect glances from strangers walking by.
i liked the way you died when other people tried to talk to you, that transparent glow when people would walk through you, the silence from your lips when they would try to talk to you.
you were mine, blank in a paper cup
full in the morning light.
.
so sitting in the weave, running my fingers through and inbetween pieces of crème string, like when we were children, our knees bare and scrapping against the cold drab concrete of your drive-way, the back-yard, the front-garden. mother with the titling lemonade, the burning sun slips behind the clouds and we'd uncrumble chalk against the pavement drawing perfect glances from strangers walking by.
i liked the way you died when other people tried to talk to you, that transparent glow when people would walk through you, the silence from your lips when they would try to talk to you.
you were mine, blank in a paper cup
full in the morning light.
.