consider the bee, warbling its bass tune of honey and flora and the pursuit of happiness about the sweet ****** sphere
i do not know how long it (i) has been (will be) here
i wish you would shake me to my core, my past tense boy, pomegranate juice dripping down your chin
i wipe it away with my thumb, sticky with longing
suddenly you are so tall, so far out of reach, so very yesterday and not at all tomorrow
dali was pulled from his dream or perhaps nightmare or perhaps a purgatory of the two
the hair on his arms rose like a spectre from its grave
she who shook him to his core haunted his sleeping moments, threatened to be swallowed whole by the fish
she saw a gun under the bed when she was six and never really felt safe since
danger hides under beds and in closets and in acrylic paint
“how surreal” i’m sure he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes
i bet it made him laugh, too