Thinking of maybe, and you
trailing the bottoms of decency. My brain...
your lament.
Failing to lift the lids of eyes and trashcans with stenches.
Trapped; to know what I know,
what's known as factual observations,
never proven except by threat;
thus subordination of mouth,
never the mind.
There is a trickle that falls on my forehead
to remind,
or to torture.
They're one in the same.
Thinking of cosmos, and you,
and what might follow. My body...
your desire.
Eyes open upward to watch the flashy falling stars;
a shower of memory and light.
Sleep walks me to bed and I look to the table.
There sits your words in a jar;
clearly interpreted,
never touched.
|
Submission Name: Never Touched
