(no subject)
I’ve spread pieces of you on my bedroom walls (my fragile way of keeping you close) and I keep changing them from place to place so I can return later and discover all seven differences during a small minute. Fall out pieces end up fading, but I do not ask what they’ve taken in their pockets as you do not qualm the light from a full moon. I think you know those walls by heart, you enter blindfolded and your fingers touch those spots that are essential for the day. It is as if you opened the crossword page and it was already done, but I suspect you secretly learned the art of flooding this muscle driven pump. Perhaps I should tell you it is easier to count the branches after the wind calmed down than it is to hold in this urge for you. Sometimes I walk over the channels of thunder, my eyes break off the hulls, carrying the night by your temples. Sometimes I bite my lips as if time was bent by the lathe, feeling the metal incarcerated under my finger nails, when all the blindness is locked from within. It shouldn’t be a surprise why I often stare at a blank wall.