tom-mcconeWhisper

New Zealander

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the catlins**dunedin. friday, three, afternoon.** / set from home under a blue sky / with full& prepared pack,

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17.8k

(falling-out-of-)love lettersstuck in a hollow room, / handfuls of pictures of / years, now simple past,

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beginner's entropyi'm not looking for pinpointed lights / in the sky or my veins like / emission spectra of petals you leave

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bleedingdoes a lion lie do lies settle here, / beneath these sheets in these nested enclosures, / i've found myself strewn upon? or corridors, from i to places

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a speechwriter's woes.curling up into all sweet confusions / that trickle down from / your touch,

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homemade feathersthought breeds fear breeds hesitation breeds inactivity breeds regret breeds sorrow breeds this second / lying against the wall, heavy paint consuming terminal strands / ink stains on two-dollar offwhite notes

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sapphiremy replacing takes part by small / designs. displacements accumulate, / until some day you look

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1.9k

11.42.28pmi walk down roadsides n smile at clouds in towering wonder and sit upon hillocks of gravel watching citylights and knowing the same kinds of light shine upon you, too, sometimes: sweet, and in flittering movements. and in this snow-flurry, a single snowflake floats down the river of endless night, and drifts lazy pattern from our respective skins to each other's; i'll clamber up, down, over valleytops and riverbeds / to find you

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petrichor/soakThe rain came down. / I sat on the doorstep, / eating tinned peaches,

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wishbonei breathe out & the world is calm. we are standing waves in the sea. i am a long distance, a collection of lip movements, and all associated aches. you were a fleck of snow i barely even saw, and the ensuing onslaught of winter. plans turn around, often; we stick no closer to 'em than our moralities- i knew what i believed, just some other day: i believed i could roll out of the feeling of wakelessness that i'd thought you endowed upon my eyelids. you were prying them open, though, and i was the one at force. "sleep, my fears and doubts", i would call to myself -round midnight- "sleep and you may escape, or somehow come closer to what you're not sure if you seek". / but my plans, moralities and i, all ambiguous at best, changed. i can't pinpoint why. you said "maybe you can smell my dying, from all that way" i said i hoped not, that i could sense you but you just couldn't tell you were flourishing. / in the heat, i would make out daydreams like dialogue, spread sense like contrails: seemingly cohesive monuments to my bearing, left out to dissipate. snowfields on sunlit afternoons. but you, you you you you you, you stay heavy-stuck to the ground through cycling seasons. variation, only nondecreasing patterns in my everyday thought. inconsistence, only meaningful or meaningless. no pain, just ache all the same.

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