Psychosomatic by Vanessa Matic

Psychosomatic was the insomniac silver hazel pupil.

White orchid moon scattered on the skin of the city.

My misanthropic brood mood, a calm magnet of all

what night is, what it belongs to. Everyone. Everything.

Smoke-chocked words in the air or broken love. The seas

opal gaped mouth singing and swallowing salty tears. No

deaths, just still life that moves silently like wind. The last

tears were taken by the audience; that was all that had

been left anyway. My head on the pure cotton pillow, the

scent of punk rock and grunge in the cigarette tray. The

remainders of yesterday, a song from the dark blue-black

birds on the purpling plum trees outside my french windows.

And you, like a lullaby haunting and then you like a cymbal

possessing what so little love I had left to offer. With your

hair almost on the tips of my fingers. Your eyelids, chin, and

ugly nose. All which made you the perfect dream to me. By

the ugly scar beside your eye that you said was a wrinkle and

that time lied. My hand inside the ice bucket of the clouds

beneath your heart. Under the pink rose of the heat I devoured

the ice of your solitary fixation; that was the high in me when I

could no longer cry or sleep. I’m not going to crack time won’t

linger; just no looking back.

”There’s no edge unless you have gone over,

and if you have..Well then I don’t think you can

come back. And if you do say hello and let me

know how that went.” –Vanessa Matic

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