A quiet room knows how many steps you’ve taken in a dream, considering you’ve been turning to the semblance of an unknown person. The sound of a river silking is hair singed, laminating darkened landscape. I still remember the darkened …
you can still love someone when you’re drowning in salt water it’s the lilac in tides the way she traces her fingers over your bare shoulders it’s the velocity of color changing while you sink, first cumulus, then pretending to …
Blood slowly traces braided folds of his palm, unwilling to stay dormant. Nomadic. Barren erosions on his skin remind him of thirsty reservation washes, endlessly needing a flood. Gradually his blood looks symmetrical and proportionate, too perfect, like his blood …
