cold lights and hard eyes of post modern romance, gently finding sunday sins
  leaving
tannic spit mornings post the every-day-weekend.

you, always -
cradling sadness as the last honest god
crafting fictions in your bedroom you -

feed me earl grey tremors at 12pm, light leaking,
something pretty something quiet,
i think of still hours, departure words

how do you            drag your finger nails down the shores of the
blistered beach     fully knowing lines exist,
only for seconds between moments holding onto notions that
dead things can survive

over and over you become a number in the many marks left unrecorded
sometimes
  unfractured for the beats when waves don’t reach their target.

x-ray the sand implant layers of what preceded - you - impose meaning on
all the drawings you couldn’t find
faking citations to forge        truth-beaten signs

consider

heavy breath without heaving
time unpunctured by incidence

drenched with ***-fear, walking blurry lines with your pretty-girl-word-fetish absent of content only empty secrets spilled onto a page vying for things you start but never end