maekenellie

There are typical things, I imagine the drawer kept in my nightstand, bulging with things you left or loaned, depending on what coursed through the region between your ears (it is now filled with items you and anyone else I've frightened away don't want anymore; the "You can keep it" parcels), I recall tutus floating above horizons denim blue, (the real sky was grey, it's funny how when you look back everything was foretold, tarot cards tucked away in the cupboard) Children tasting Halloween in apple crisp air, summoning the courage to call out the silly, silly, girls much too much alike. (your old ballet costumes are still at my house

1. Here's the thing, Or rather the stillness that flattens the air off my chest 'til all that's left are the wrong words. Again. 2a. Quiet is the sound, although who could be certain, of perhaps near drifting asleep in sunbeams upon fluttering precipitation. I've laid alone upon white yards all these years and whisperless skies just to feel my own pulse and see, rather than hear, my own breath; i.e. feel alive. It hasn't snowed this year, but what the FUCK was so grand about frozen water? (Remind me, god, oh please.) 2b. Silence is not quiet, it's absence or perhaps an abscess of noise, more so sound (I st

1. Feet are meant to be felt, to pace with. They're for running and running and walking but do you ever stare skyward to see cardinals on wires thinner than my veins walking? 2. When only midsummer hazes are left, please don't comprehend why. Winter is a desolate conundrum, dripping with hot tears (mostly) unnoticed (among the closest of strangers). 3. You don't comprehend my over usage of prefixes either, but I don't comprehend anything so we're even. 4. I am silly for sewing bows into my hair in efforts of beautification (or preservation) but that is what we should've, could've, ARE'NT, ARE'NT ARE'NT ARE'NT a

The page is clearly here, so lines arrive to mar it. It seems that words cannot spill out, only to further scar it. Cutting geometric shapes out of your blank silhouette. I wasn't aware you heard me say "I fail at etiquette," I realized I knew right then the word math should be ablaze Not for smothering solemn pupils but for piecing apart your craze. Not everything can be proper, still x's should match with y's, not with empty outlooks or the wings of butterflies. Instead I'm being swallowed and the chaos disciplined, it's breath is still upon my neck but scholars can't listen. The sea takes off his hat to a freshly ta