We made music because the instruments remind us of our own bodies, I know too many who can string me out that way.
That bluejay tuned me like a harp, acoustic as I was, but those hands, they never touched me; just sung a sweet song of revival, until one day he flew away. I was left to the task of picking through needles and thread, wincing at the hypocrisy in his words...
Before that, a sky blue sent sweet notes through the holes in me that were left unfilled, tickled the sad emptiness, and it sounded like a harmonica. Like a long day, turned to years that churn butter through the hands of the hungry, so you hear the sounds of coins dropping and the smell of what really matters. Of course, it doesn't stay daytime for long, and the sunshine somehow shattered like a window on a burning house...
Every hand strikes me like a drum set stretched too thin, I crack, I blossom at the rim...
A ripple effect to every rhythm and every note they never played.
YOU ARE READING
Virgin Moon Phases
PoetryMy first official collection of poetry and prose written by yours truly, the brush fire witch. I take my writing very deeply to heart, and if you read it, I hope you will too.
