looking at the horizon
of knee highs meeting your thighs,
i come to grips
with sea lice
erasing my flesh
from my bones,
and i'm okay
with it.
the sleight of hand is noticeable,
ruining the prestige:
now,
are you paying attention?
the set-up:
i am infected
with serpentine thoughts
wiggling their way
through the wrinkles
of my brain.
the abyss.
my empty grave
is in the forefront,
but it's all about the
illusion.
is it really empty?
or is it fill with body parts?
i don't know.
i can't explain the world to you;
i can only tell bedtime stories
that will make you forget
about your worries
for a couple hours
longer.
so sink into a deep sleep with me,
and forget the reflection
of your facial features
in the bathroom mirror
until tomorrow morning.
because
the bad feelings will pass
if we can swim
through their cold currents,
and breathe
because it's all all wrong.
tonight,
looking at nothing in particular,
we will bow,
then leave the stage
to an audience's
standing ovation.
always thinking of you
you always thinking of me.
25,
and trying to pull a rabbit
out of a hat
without killing it.
Well done MS.
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