The alchemist asks for glass to crash the batch of fresh yellow sulphur and red match. Some new vapor’s being savored but they’ve all got that same flavor and I’m all out of cash to buy you drive-thru food so you’re subdued, a break from that sharp attitude while you sleep like a feline on my chest. And I guess that I would not expect to get to see you and I crawl up underneath you sleeping soundly by the windows – those blindless gashes you still can’t close when you’re purring on your pillow dreaming of the weeping willows that will one day shade the small plot of fresh grass your grandkids bought you when I’m smoking, second story. I promise you’ll never bore me – even if we’re locked in white rooms, arms strapped back, albino tombs, kissing you and breathing fumes my clever chemist has concocted, airy trails that get adopted by the synapse of my brain filled with a million times your name, neatly stacked and unreplaced. I can’t stop picturing your face. This is how you find things in your sink, double take, rub once then blink, no I’m not sure of what I think except to say your face.

~ by perfectionatrix on January 27, 2010.

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