it melts on your tongue,
liquifying with the house’s undulation.
brick-bone dancing matron.

in the house of my mother,
i light one candle and leave it,
lit and flickering,
sweetly rotating with its pin ***** flame.

some wonder, quite casually, if this‘fire’ has organs,
limp, molten flesh sacks within its walls.
tendrils of light that could drape,
lover heavy astride the chair.

limp and languid fingers that barely escape to the surface

how far you were able to see,
what it must be like,
to live at its edge,
seeing an other place similar to yours.