All My Favorite Salt Cities

All my favorite cities turned to salt because their dancers couldn’t waltz and I still think that it’s my fault.

All my favorite lovers took the train and said they won’t come here again. They closed up every open end and said exactly what they meant.

All my favorite moments end in shrieks of how could you do this to me? Kamchatka irises don’t leak; they only blink a bit then flee to the next 24 hour extra mart that’s on the way. A thousand blooming flowers think of nothing nice to say but only lay unpicked, empty. I swore the florist sent me but my family’s from the country and I know that you won’t love me.

All my favorite lovers called my name, they said the syllables this way that made the consonants refrain over the vowel sounds that rang and now no one says a word but going off of things I’ve heard, your’s are a set of irises I don’t deserve.

All my favorite evenings have the shape of something discovered not made, unearthed from granite in the shade, each detail underplayed, each plea for progress understated. I mask myself in sarcasm and laughter, knowing that nothing comes after one wall post and errant like.


~ by perfectionatrix on March 18, 2010.

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