I haven't cried in three days. The napkin-white petals, an Alyssum White blanket of snow, piebalded by Slipper Orchids, flows beneath my skin as if it were the thinnest layer of water under oil.
The feeling is the consistency of pungent Valerian, the active ingredient the smell of well-matured cheese, cuts the tops offΒ Β mountains as it fills the bottoms of canyons with asphalt.
It's given a brain back to this anencephaly. Where there were stitched lips, now only paper-heart kisses.