ᵗᶦᶰʸ ᵗᵉˣᵗ
ᵗᶦᶰʸ ʷᵒʳᵈˢ
ᵗᶦᶰʸ ᶠᵒᶰᵗ ᶦˢ ᑫᵘᶦᵗᵉ ᵃᵇˢᵘʳᵈ

ᵗᶦᶰʸ ᵐᵃᶰ
ᵗᶦᶰʸ ᵍᶰᵒᵐᵉ
ʰᵒᵖᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᶫᶦᵏᵉᵈ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵗᶦᶰʸ ᵖᵒᵉᵐ

Resurrection and rabbits
sure
why not.

Why  do  they  go  mad  
on  easter  bunnies.
When  it's  the  birds
that  lay  the  eggs.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

The girl you see on the train
With a piercing to commemorate each heartbreak
Has a few in places you can't see
— Because you can't know her relationships;
You don't know her heartbreak, or pain.
Instead, you count the suitcases and handbags she is lugging.

The girl who got a new piercing each time her heart broke
Has more smile lines on her face than studs,
So you can see she has had a fair measure
Of good moments:
She is not all rough edges and elbows.

But what you don't know,
And can't tell
From looking at her alone,
Is that she got a tattoo
Each time that she moved on.

The girl with as many piercings as heartbreaks
-And as many tattoos as movings on-
Has eight pieces of jewellery
Strung through her skin,
But only seven markings
Inked into it,
Because she knows she'll never quite get over
The one she can't quite forget.

You'll have to speak to her to know her—
A stranger on the train—
And let her tell you about her life;
And one day you'll hold her hand
As she gets her eighth tattoo done.
Break out of your bubble, if only because
One day, eight heartbreaks in, you'll help her break even.

rewind; replay
    we're standing in a canopy of sunlight
    and laughing, constantly.
    our faces are tired of moving up
    but our eyes are used to crinkling;
    they fold, and shut, and open like buds
    with the spread and shrink of our grins, in
    and out, with our lungs.
Pauze. Zoom.
    Your nails are chipping now, but
    You're really a halfwit,
    So that doesn't deter you the least bit
    From scratch-scratch-scratching at their shook ends:
    They fall apart as we fall out.
    We're spinning, we're dizzyingly quick,
    Hurtling at the speed of 28,800 kilometres an hour; we're brisk
    At best. (Inconceivable at worst.)
    And I can feel, already, you slipping away.
    You're outside of my grasp; you're far out.
rewind; replay.
    We're ripping at the seams;
    Our faces are like bad make-up
    That doesn't move with our smiles;
    Our eyes stay impassive,
    Uninterested at best. Incensed at worst.
    The crinkles in their corners are crusted
    And new folds form on the frowns of our foreheads.
    We're smothering each other in pillow talk and blankets.
Flash-forward, play.
    We're bathed in rain, we're in a
    Canyon, in a chasm.
    We don't know salt from wound
    Or snake from bite. We
    Bring out the worst in our best selves.
    We're drowning in suitcases and bedding.
    We let it fill our lungs and we
    Don't look back.