Literature
she...
you're painting pretty lies, alabaster
secrets, forgotten covenants saved for
bad luck days and sinking-ship smiles,
and there are fireflies in your veins,
impassioned promises in your eyes.
i am tired of the monosyllabic angry words
emanating from the room downstairs, crystalline
lungs exhaling choleric clouds of some long
extinct virus, contaminating this empty house,
slipping under closed doors and poisoning
the last ray of sunshine we had left.
she said: looking and seeing are two
very different things
we created a universe between sunset
irises and milkweed butterfly queens,
turning rainy days into a cathartic fix
