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Drying In Collapsing Elegance
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Unpublished pieces In truth, I'm internally bleeding.
Manifesting imaginary tears
that crinkle
like babies sleeping.
Always sleeping.
Pretending.
Washing dishes and putting away the cigarette butts
of phones ringing.
Always ringing.
Vapid gestures and pain.
The rain beginning.
Nobody caring.
But instead sharing the
broken electrical cords
that still sting
even after
the monsters have arrived.
Other numbers
become
more important
to the freckled hands
that are always grabbing at tomorrow.
And tomorrow always begins
with an ending.
Beginning to appreciate the
blooming crying.
Always crying.
Always asking.
Questions of me.
Questions for you.
Leave the pots boiling.
Let the water out
and add more salt.
More pepper. More spices.
Jumper cables starting to fray.
I know that the flacking paint
is never drying.
