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