prosey...
so...
Were you the one walking, slowly collecting yourself in pristine gardens designed as prisons for gardenias and standing water, trying to put on a porcelain stare? I was waiting ribs cracking pressing against barely relaxed pineberry bushes defining a perimeter I couldn’t accept and waiting for an invitation I couldn't hope for you to extend.
Who were you talking to, humming harmonic sympathies struggling in intervallic extensions, lifted up on toes and notes, and forgotten cadences that released timid bulbs to bloom. Trumpets. I am a shell of that shadow, hollowed and open voices. I am melting through ante-theatrical, guessing at your glances and redirecting the light.
How far have we come, how stunned and unencumbered and sometimes xenophobes withdrawn within our own drawn hovels, shades closed answering machines on. We’ve flung open doors, or I’ve hung new walls in fractal rows and spread my feet in sand that closed the gaps between these bushes and the thinly drawn line indicating your back.
practice practice practice right? right.