My posting dates have been all messed up lately, but September comes petulant each year and I must oblige to his whims, enticer that he is. For what it’s worth I must warn you that this is not a love poem, its worth stands behind a mirror.
Dreams come with songs on their tails, comets whose trails fade in the night. Your face is not with me anymore, but your hand still burns my insides while something stirs in the dream, that loathing part of me you tossed away and I took in, and the dark comes alive just before I wake up screaming at you, you are not yourself anymore, I have made you—that I know. How am I to love you I do not.
I feel like I’ve eavesdropped a private conversation, then the speaker catches my eye and I look away, caught.
beautiful, with sharp edges