we follow the origami crane until we become the folded pieces of paper, imperfect like the disposition repositioned yet elongated as dusk blankets the land, I see a vacancy in your feint stare, rain clouds above the wet paint, revel in the relative until tears flood the easel to the paint brush, you paint lush intent at the brush stroke of your light skin, the phoebe I know would rotate the atlas and let her fingers cross borders, indefinite of what she feels, unfazed by complacency, transparent paper she kindles like those faces that remain at a distance, dissonance at her finger tips she assembles lines until they translate how she feels, razor blades at the tips of her lips go unnoticed, though her idiosyncrasies rewrite over some memories I keep written in the trace of her hips, lave till she strips like the petals of a rose, my blood runs caught amongst the thorns, lost I fall eyes frozen inside the depths of her iris', this isn't love instead a few callous thoughts, she doesn't know it but she comprises the horizon, till her eyes close and block out the rays she doesn't know she has, and although she falls into doubt, she'll never be the scribble that I am, a watermark left on a few pages lost.. till I wander into wonder feeling a sense of fondness, alone till the sky opens.
scribbleofdoubt.
