Saturday, August 26, 2006

sabine.

you say my name

like the notes of a keyboard,

bright and simple and like

a child.

we were founded upon

bonfires and sunrises

and searching for a dry spot of ground

to sleep,

blanketed in spider bites and rain drops

and each other.

you helped me see my art

where it always laid in wait,

in space and time,

of only a porch and two weeks.

that smell of smoke and syrupy ink,

spreading, saccharine,

down your arm

and into fingers

made of the blackest rainbows.

such sweet, dark things we are,

demolishing the night

with a derby of dementia and dissonance.

1 Comments:

Blogger MertMengelmier said...

You're like a 21st century Poe, only nicer and less into smoking crack.

4:14 PM  

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