I crushed you one time, between thumb and forefinger.
Wonder surrounds the meaning of flowering bruises...
growth in broken blood vessels, wounded flesh,
bringing forth the fruit of fleeting pain.
your face disappeared for a short while,
but it has returned with a vengeance.
I wonder where it went,
if photographs were taken in impression of itself,
contorting interestingly alone amidst a sea of bodies and blank heads.
Arranging the words just so means very little in the presence of bewildered kindness,
ensconced in love, I guess,
and the business of perpetual forgetting.
If I were an Einstein-Rosen bridge,
I'd make sure you were ever transported backward to stay just as you are(n't).
worthless/priceless.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment