Life, based on the one about the woodpile, the bed of leaves and losing my panties. We entered utopia unprepared and so goddamn satisfied with it. I’ve wondered, do you now exist there? Content for eternity? I don’t think it’s only the strong that survive, it has to be only the weakest. I’ve withered and paled since you’ve left. I don’t expect this decay to turn around.
i was lost in the aether, lost in a life based on a woodpile, on a bed of leaves where i removed her panties with my teeth. we entered hell heedlessly but took to the routine as if born to it. even as we left, i couldn’t bear to move on. it is the only place i feel your echo. i cannot believe only the weak survive as i fall to pieces in your shadow, for you are out there, vibrant and alive. while i let the rot infect your every missing smile.
I turned the flower towards the sun today, just like I promised. I spent the day watching it. On fast forward it would have resembled a negotiation of petal placement but I witnessed the slow and graceful pirouette instead. It made me regret all harshly spoken words and iron-fisted tones bleeding a lie of unrest between us. Our shifts were like drenching rainstorms of promise, gorgeous in their unrefined prose. I almost missed it. Is this the devastating truth of all life? A horrific cliche? We don’t know what we have until we don’t have it. And the absence of you is the ghost of the blue stone moon.
the ghost of the blue stone moon
EC and i had so much fun being miserable we decided to do it again. she is poetry, i feel lucky to see her move.