I devour the lit dusk with my own hands.
Fistfuls of moonlight lace carried like silt through the slow-furling waters.
Everything seems to glow unnaturally here,
the lucky horse-shoe on the door, the canaries with their bulbous blueberry eyes,
the mutant bridesmaid with her bloodsoaked tiara sitting askew atop her midas-touched curls,
the boy with the champagne flute who inhaled all his mother’s nicotine when he was nine.
The sun’s carcass laid out on the porch and the shrine in between your thighs. Rendered holy and catering to some lost boy’s worship.
And you would think, it would hurt less. That we’d swallow our own tails to make ourselves whole again.
That the sky would pincer our skins and we’d dance in slow-motion to flamenco music.
And you’d say something romantic & juvenile, about how my laugh sounds like church bells or icicles crinkling underfoot.
My white enamel love and how it reminds you of a house with all six functioning senses, a kennel for our dog and piña coladas daisy-soft and splashing like snowflakes against our parched tongues.
Everything quiet & pink in the drunk afternoon light splitting open the mouths of windows and our cardboard cut-out wrists.
— Ouroboros || j.r