mixedmarigolds

We are bounded by four streets and they Resemble the spots where clock hands freeze At the witching hour and serial killers claim Their victims in broad daylight. A spirit Could rise from under the concrete at any Second, it seems, except it’s four thirty-eight in the Morning and we are are the only two souls in the Suburb and the only one who ever passed away on Utopia Parkway was a God. She was a god and She got ran over by a Cadillac in the spring of 1998 and Above us is the grime extracted from beneath her fingernails. We’re perched like jays on your uncle’s roof, and we trace Constellations in each other’s hair. She watches. The two of us only have a hundred minutes until Dawn fills our lungs with air we swallow like Bucket list-worthy milkshakes from road stop diners. The Moon will leave an apology for us in a Flaxen daybreak and our Heartbeats will mirror roller skates gliding across Checkerboard tiles that have never tasted Lysol. Regardless, we both dread the prospect of Climbing down from the shingles. Zephyrs pass through me like timid ghosts. They Parallel your breath as you single out all the two-faced stars that Never fulfilled the benevolent desires of your youth. You only have yourself to blame for these broken Oaths, sweetheart, the infinity of the Macrocosm resides in your irises. You theorize that my tongue must taste like Sirius. Clearly, the only way to know for sure is to smear the Margins of our auras together and while I do long for our heavens to collide, You’re infamous for dissolving the hearts of superclusters and I cannot be trusted to hold astral bodies in My hands. I can only watch them, silently emitting Cosmic dust, in hopes that the phantom of Utopia Parkway does not stare back at me. I know She is sprawled across the leather Backseat of a silver 1986 Fleetwood but She is moribund and I don’t know what She is anticipating. So to make amends, I tally the eyes of angels amongst the emptiness of Nirvana, I lose track, and I only count yours When I start over.

somewhere, an echoing voice. and it says where have you gone? and, in response, the following: i owe half of myself to february. concerning souls, i have learned to let her coexist with mine so much easier, it is, to admit i am nothing without her silent writhing in my gut relentless, a ticking time bomb, a running display of laughter from her amusement that i should attempt to eat i have to make room for her in my body so i remove, reluctantly, the pieces i cannot use much anyways – abilities to speak and breathe and sleep and eat love for others, she says, should be replaced with love for her because, ponder with me hypothetically that if i do not. if i do not let her take half then it is not her, it is me that removes myself from the people i love selfishly where will she go if i do not house her

february is what happens when i allow phases to build when the bad week in december is loosely excused for pms like my hormones grew an ability to wring themselves around my neck and force me to stare at my ceiling fan when all of november is forgotten when september is a fading lifesaver when there’s something (i swear there was something) in between the two sunlight burns in low 70’s and fades before i can reach it and i wonder if the lack of rain means it is preparing to cut me in one go

love is easy cartwheels on air, flipping pancakes like sunday afternoons and cotton candy craftbooks and scrapbooks, diary entries starting to thin out in quantity he says the word “because” with purpose like how your name rolls off his tongue with a feeling you can’t pinpoint as something conscious and hazel has never looked more beautiful relationships are not you sometimes wonder if you love more, if he does if your evening runs look more like sprints or marathons, or if either matters so long as you can keep your breath and the recognition that what is built can be broken like promises and patience lingers in the pit of your stomach and so it goes we play dice with this dichotomy like it’s something we roll once as a gamble as if it hasn’t always been anything other than a continuous choice to say yes, yes, yes so i roll tens and sixes and fours and threes say yes to each and let the tide come through l.t