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i draw you but i cant draw

i draw you, but its rough

i draw my estimations

erase. draw. erase.

you're still here. erase. you're still here.

i draw you and tear up the paper

there you are, in the distance

i draw back a bow

and see the lead smudge across your chest
I wish I could say it all smooth,
blue skies and butterflies,
peaches and cream,
sea glass gliding the edge
of the tide and the moon's soft glow
steadying our fragile night.

But the world is too sharp,

darling, and the lullabyes we
whisper before morning dew are
dashed to pieces by noon, the promises
we make suspended somewhere
unreachable. Slashed and stitched but
the scar is elusive. Tenuous.

Till then we conspire.
part of something larger im working on...i know i rarely post, i have a habit of just dropping tidbits of writing into my drafts until i decide what to do with them
you and your comebacks and come back. I'm not finished with you yet.

not-so-soft-spoken and salacious

sharp wit and even sharper teeth.
We dream apart the past,
flicks of yellow here and           there
where the sun throws its shadows.

Across the white sand beach,
under the overpass,
in the parking lot and
behind my house, where the trees
twist into each other and become woods.

The thicket, braver than it used to be,
the spiders, more clever, weaving their wispy
threads on our path. We laugh and push on,
walk the trails to keep them worn, the rocks
growing heavy in our pockets.

And maybe the muddy bank was a
better home, but the weight is a comfort.
The stones clack together when we walk,

and it's the softest music.
the taste of metal

clack clack clack

nothing is pure anymore
I said I wasn't going to do this anymore, but here I am, doing this.

maybe I wanted
something to dissect
something tangible

I pick you apart
but it's all abstract

pen in the hand
I can draw a line
foot in the sand
I can draw a line

I think of you
and everything blurs
Making letters out of the noises
of night paranoid minds hear, changing
their order, their
          direction, ******* on context,

Demanding a second look,
a third look,
and the ones I gave you
before I knew what they meant.

Three words, three shovels.
Three words, three graves.
Three words, watch them move and
still under your stare.

I counted the words on my fingers.
I counted them
               and over,
mumbling into mantra,
words and numbers,
                    numbers and

A combination for this safe,
a name for this needle.
I sit back and watch

the years stitch together.
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