Cosmos . i could feel the knife but i haven'f told my body yet, clock handles intercept, entwine, stitch up like a crown of thorns, like a wreath of daisies, clinging onto one another's flesh like creation, eyes painfully open spiralling into a lightning strike. — the
Right Time comes but my grip on the handle loosens. i don't twist the knife further into your rotting ribcage. i take it
Back . it is mine to forge, mine to forget. i will water the seeds though i haven't spoken to your body yet. i will scrape off the moss with my fingernails, light the candles with my rage.
the days will die, as they do, gracefully, cradled softly by the moonlight. the small hands aren't even cold yet. i don't have the truth. i will offer pockets full od decay and fistfuls of time, even if all of it will slip through my fingers like a forgotten sandcastle. i will offer my mouth - useless, but it's a poet. and the body will shrug, lifeless, voiceless. still Screaming . i will die, in a repetition of history —
betraying my body. it will stop performing - the crystal ball prophecy reverberates - and writhe into its true form. morsels scattering into light prisms like multicolored kaleidoscopes, like the night sky in a telescope. jagged and defeated. i just wish i could Remember . even if all there is is envy. even if
just for a second. be it a tombstone or a coral reef. even if you never find me. even if your small hands go cold. even if there is no truth at the end of the world.
