born from a splitting ache in the back-left of my head like a drill bit whirring in an empty paint can.
i'd give you pearls for hands my love, ever-winter washing over our foaming cerulean eyescapes.
inside your drums I hear a pulse that cries for hips and thorns entangled under your navel.
one more summer breath from lung to lung exchanged under moonlight for the promise of elevation. you are not who you say you are my dear - you are a future memory stalking sweetly today under the guise of novel pleasure , but time will reveal your skin to me under the electric lavender of my eyelids.
you are wood grain and strata - born too, it seems, from a splitting.
When do petals lose their gentle sway? When do they detach And begin to float away? What sort of pressures Cause it's smoothness to fray? Dryed and roughened, Weakened and flayed.
When do petals begin to fall? Into a world of dirt and decay... Soon after, when is it, That they crumble and break? Laying on a horizon strewn, With vague silhouettes and Unfamiliarity.
And if after, the petal gathers itself, When is it, that it is raised into the sky, Into a familiar unfamiliar atmosphere? When is it that the petal loses itself, And in its emptiness, Tears at its own soul profusely? Elevated high Into the expansive, empty sky Away and away From any natural warmth And cleaved apart from any stability.
Because... The petal, When it lays back against the wind, The image of freedom it always imagined, Was actually A prison.
The Hadid in weekend plans this plane that'll easily shake takeoff as they'll break the news and flash zesty Yolanda that only her celebs were finally gathered in the Paparazzi will trump West Hollywood.