i can hear the slight
electric-buzz-rumbling of blood pulsing steadily past the
the petrified tautness of whatever the hell that muscle is called ...
in this black quiet train-whistle-of-a-night
40% chance of something coming down ....
an isabella chrysanthemum melt
puddled there beneath these mock legs
petaling out towards light & rest
tendrils of something smelling of rain & destiny sweep past my focus
if your arms encircled me now, would my body respond ?
is this calling weariness but a memory of you
riding the storm cusp
closing eyes ....
breathing slows and time wavers in lines of mint amethyst
holding your hand melt sunshine-melt blazing fire & jamieson melt
there is no such thing as mistake
there is no control here, only release & forgiveness
untie the bandage & open wide arms . .
melt into story ...
flowered blossom thunder
a 40% chance of something coming down