starting fires in alleyways and watching flames lick across brick
rubbing damp clay dolls across palms to chase warmth in winter
picking fake leaves off of plastic plants and flicking fern on floor
crouching next to walnut pots and standing to the doorway sides
grazing static on the television as pearl teeth knock across the pane
kissing knuckles and letting silver spikes snake between your teeth

breaking might be like running my fingers through the fields of your hair
sowing flowers in the empty crevices that separate the folds of my skin
walking by your crated white-picked house in the brisk afternoon
laying a hollowed hand over the denim jacket before my upticked heart
pressing lips to letters hoping that they'll be ripped open tomorrow
plunging eyes inside the envelope waiting to read what i write