When words tripped off the side of your grin, I felt the statement slip toward my ear like the slide of a skateboard on griptape – how it led me to hate a sport I’ve never even tried.
I waited, quietly listened, cupped my ear to your mouth, but silence echoed grievously in the absence of sound. It was only warm breath and then emptiness.
Surely I could never be certain of how many stars I’ve counted in the sky or of how such tiny particles can be build into wild-eyed stories like Aquarius and Cassiopeia. I could read you as I would the constellations and never tire.
Indigo child, you hid secret under graves, picked at the lamb stuck between teeth, felt around for monsters we once reaped. But the monster turned out to be free.
I’m from a state that houses too many cornfields and a town that no one takes seriously- in a home where glass cuts hurt less than deeply wounded words.
You ever stare at something so long the colors blend together? Even the most neutral tones take on a life of their own, fold themselves into shapes that morph into creatures – wolves and goblin.
I wait and wait and wait and god I am sick of waiting. To not see your face anymore. To not know the burden that belongs to you. To not imagine the window I looked through the night I found out.
