In apple growing-warmth, I found oceans between eyelashes and Pacific air.
Ligamented with smoke, skeleton hands crafted cigarettes of honey and curling floral sweetness.
For soft-haired royalty, I bowed my heart and washed my skin in space and rainy wishes.
I drowned myself in polish remover, to show the stripped beauty of love and life to a sun who lives off alcohol and notions of wouldn't it be nice?
But I, the noiseless patient spider, who has flung gossamer after thread, am reaching for nothing but an earth flower, One who I thought loved me, or at least that’s what she said. ((one who sees through rose-pink eyeglasses, and speaks in feathered song.))
Still, I sleep well under starless skies, where urban northern lights burn the dark, charred there by city windows and boundless passing cars.
Here, I wrap myself in a cloth galaxy, and I paint the sun with blackberry juice, trading gold and diamonds for the simple hope that someone might live up to you.