(no subject)
there's a memory that a pink azalea is, for him its optical blues and whites. you put your foot down when i hid beneath your shoe. what began the fire, what started the spark, what moved the air? i felt so pretty, but my little fingernails were caked with dirt by sundown.
now i sit quietly, my nose tingles and my eyes burn while i secretly hope he just passes by my door, ignores the invitation.
another you struggled to breathe through a throat full of water, the sound of mardi gras beads flapping against a closed door. i would do anything to hear that sound of you again....of silver touching silver...the sound you gave to me for my last birthday, custom-made for a tiny fist.
now i sit quietly, my nose tingles and my eyes burn while i secretly hope he just passes by my door, ignores the invitation.
another you struggled to breathe through a throat full of water, the sound of mardi gras beads flapping against a closed door. i would do anything to hear that sound of you again....of silver touching silver...the sound you gave to me for my last birthday, custom-made for a tiny fist.