Breakdown
I buy admission to the tattered big top amidst a hundred or more whose skin is the color of my own.
I buy admission to the tattered big top amidst a hundred or more whose skin is the color of my own.
As your elder’s trunk snapped, you turned and ran, like a terrified child unsure which way the sky was falling.
I mulled over what I could have done differently. A crack in one of the hazy panes caught my eye. A fissure.
I remembered you on stage in Montreal with your guitar. How could you have picked up that gun?
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“The sensual wetness of the sand beneath my feet is balm to my seared soul. The siren song of waves beckons.”
My blue ocean sadness. Kept from you, hidden from view. So I keep docking at the same port of hurt.
The warmth of your small body seeps through cracked exterior penetrates deep into this caked clay.
My bullet has been eroding into my spinal cord for the last ten years, the sandbar under my feet slipping away..