#.. woof

   THEY ONLY EXIST LIKE THIS, IN RESTLESS POETRY.   she had forgotten how largely he spoke sometimes, grabbing metaphor by the throat like that :  too many small memories had been coming back in flickers as of late, lamplight points in the dark.  she didn’t mind.  comfort in old habits wasn’t such a hardship, surely.

     the pad of her thumb pushes against a palm as she listens, tracing black ink harshly  ( a coiled snake, a dead stag, the many unmentioned patterns )  as if that will chase the agitation from her bones.  it never had, but the tick stays, sole movement in her languid frame.  from across the tablet the girl watches him, pale eyes hooded in the california sun as it eats away the afternoon.  neither of them have the time to simply linger like this, but they do, and they sink into the hollow wrap of conversation ;  do you remember me like i do ?

     ‘oh, jackson,’  and it’s always that, always her old voice come to call with the name she never unlearned.  the lilt in her humming tone stays and keeps amusement at hand, bare shown.  with a breaking sigh the girl moves to drag a hand through dark hair, pulling the mess of it from her eyes as they ghost from him, trace the scenery.  ‘ it doesn’t mean the dead don’t still come after us  — you know that. ’