She is liquid day
an avenue of wind
a consuming sound
leaving pages of
burning secrets for
his growing bouquet
he will crack under Her tongue
glass bombs slicing skin
bruises build wild around him
a battery of harsh blue-blackness
a cloak of sharded insults
he's learning to hate Her
to resent the way Her skirt
falls against the cream of
thighs tight with youth
he's starting to map the
click of Her shoes on his
linoleum, scratched and
darkened with pressure and
aging, weather-worn regrets
She is bright white--
a skeleton key in
206 interlocking pieces
a carefully transposed
bend in his road
if he watches Her eyes closely
he can see morning coming |
Submission Name: Umbrage
in this line, i thought that blue-blackness sounded not so commonplace as the other phrases in this piece...well
...