some thoughts were never meant to be penned
she lies prone, hair loose like a beautiful witch
humming that haunting little melody to herself
a decade since her heart strings vibrated to that tune
memory terrorism, he called it, but how delightful
it is to indulge when everything is quiet except
the friction of your ribs expanding and contracting
against the ground, and he was the only one
who knew the pleasurable rush of breathing
like that
fractal, ever-splintering
one line tangent to the
opium smoke you burn incessantly
and his accustomed eyes don't get smoky,
his vessels immune to red,
ears to your mantras tune in, tune out
at the same time
a split self
one vector pierces right through you when
you're not looking and there's something
rabid about that bite that makes you want
to bite back knowing
you only have forty days before
complete intoxication and thoughts of water
and drowning
a circle
marked by salt around the edges,
salt and vulnerability
make the land fertile and barren
at the same time
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