Something is out of place.
Something inherently
molecular within her
myogenic wilderness:
a modesty, an awareness,
the visible manifestation
of her shyness.
It contracts.
It tones.
It colors her
openly,
just as the sky.
Involuntary,
just as stimuli.
There's something new
about this face.
Something awakened.
Something lovestruck
and silly.
For what else
could exert such
a dilator mechanism,
in all its deliciousness?

Gelid

Sequela

Hearts melted as candles

Congeal into isolated connections

Pressed upon the lips of urgent ice

And both of these shall ever be

Till the gods to destruction go

You stand ready against all odds,
Holding true on fictitious front lines,
swearing the enemy is real

Much like the boy-
They all think you're crying wolf,
Searching for phantoms in normal faces

You can feel their ephemeral grasp,
make-believe fingers - tracing lines,
that make your hair stand up straight

Rock yourself to sleep,
Spear gripped tight in all-too-real hands,
They may not believe,
But your mind has seen,
Those unseen phantoms