in the cusp of orgasm
blood of summers
wrinkles of clocks
stitching up locks
grown to the floor
who knows who
colors of change at midnight
past limp tumbling over the future
a cartwheel of forgetting
through a smoke ring
at 3:06am
burning a now
for a yes
and a puff of never
a second for the smells of the moon
a once for the tickle of a remember
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment