Sunlight cups the water wind.
Wisper the cold valley into my head.
Moutain edges cut the horizon for miles and miles.
Wet stone like charcoal
Dipped in Irish green moss
Caught in the ocean mist.
Standing in the icy creek with waterfall water washing at my skin. Light blissfully rests on my closed eye lids.
Feel the ground.
Empathy for the folds in the valley light that crawls along magnificent for infinity.
I can feel the dandelion spores.
They swing on strings and bring the clouds down.
Down.
They pick apart all the clouds until it snows.
Snow silently crystallizes leafless birch trees.
Winter flows in every direction until the creek unfreezes.

I am the lover of the stars, flowers, and the wind,
I desperately love the highest mountain,
Just like the way I love the core of the earth.
I love all things with their energy, concerns, and occupations,
After the fashion of my love of raging rivers.
I love the dawn & the dusk equally,
As I love the tortoise and the hare,
The unknown and the known similarly.
After all, the bindweed is found as beautiful when compared to the rose,
And all things deserve my love, which they certainly get,
Solely for existing.

you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.

In a Somerville coffeeshop, waiting for his single origin light roasted Pour over,

Frankenstein reads a philosophy magezine, seductively planted by the lounging area.

"One lives two lives."
The magezine reads,  
"That which one spends in their physical body,
and that which begins the moment one leaves that body,
lasting until all witness to ones first life has spoken its final word".

The baristas eyes widen when he sees Frankenstein,
The barista says nothing.
He knows better than to raise the dead.
Frankenstein is often confused
for his monster.

Condensation rises between crocheted mittens, Frankenstein Lingers on the Cherry notes in his Coffee, while it combs icicles into his snow white mustache.

He likes this new version of an afterlife. It empowers him to take advantage of the time he has now, to make his second life last as long as possible.
He's in the middle of this thought
When his face slams against ***** snowbank.
Dog **** mixing into the icicles of his moustache.
A familiar mob of torches and pitchforks only see the monster.
They take turns kicking.
Kicking
Frankenstein wakes to a lynching.

When he lives
He is not a monster.

cause I'd rather be drunk off of all the liquor in the world than to be drunk off the idea of you