somethingslastforever
the blue afternoon is not the sun
the blue afternoon
is coped with-light dripping onto charcoal, grey superimposed, black the hot sky,
it could be penetrated but—it’s a hole for a mouth, spitting up tiny records of “Feed me!” and “I need to be changed,” since when can a newborn talk?
there’s a way out, oblong and white and—a hot pink pelt curls between my fingers, one of the softest ever made, cold blushing millions and I mean millions
okay, focus, if I turn here—it dances, croaking some tune I heard once, two beads the size of my
thumb, I see myself in its eyes in splashes of citrus red 2 and yellow 5 washed out by the
blue afternoon, okay
I’ve passed the babies and the pelts and I’m so close to that white exit and—
oh my god, it comes with batteries
Will you be where I left you?
the truth—it’s something alarming—a huge black room and everyone is there, you probably already know, i’ve got handfuls of glass, composites around my neck, and i’m fantasizing about you.
silently crashing against yourself, swollen with is-ness
(i left your tongue inside)
Will you be where I left you?
im not the same i’m sorry; huge 2x4’s sticking out of me and walking on a million caveats so that i might scrape you off the balls of my feet—i have a gut feeling you won’t let me come back but
picture me hidden in the deep calcified cuts of your finger tips. It made it all worth it. I remember
your cold face that doesn’t speak, so what can i do except shove glass fingers through my lips, wrench open my plastered jaw, and ask—
Will you be where I left you?
