Not Running

To feel the ebb and flow of the underlying current, the blood which runs between us all like vague ants from a book; a story known and forgotten. Shared, common, rotten in rarity. To peel back the skin of a tangerine, colored electric dream, brighter than the sunlight tightening its grip around a bird who flies through the sky in the middle of the day. His love bright, blind, as teeth pushing through the skin of a newborn lamb, perhaps a sunkissed sprout. “Sorry,” he says with blood dripping down his bare chest, “it’s just that life is my prerogative.”

All is well that ends well.
 

Her lips, smiling like the broken sea drug behind a pirates ship. An arrow. Sky blue and blood red, she shows the truth of her love, hungry canopy grazing eyes. Her true colors blacker than the depths of lightless space, seeming to suck with a devotion born even before time had claimed its first soul. She ate the word death and stood before Grandmother Change with the dying words of mice and wilds grasses forming sentences in the froth around her lips. A kiss, a century.

 

These are the days, the nights, the ones who have given and taught. The ones who will give and will teach. Why my love holds a knife and watches the sun set, pleading with the gods inside that we may not lose ourselves to the darkness around and within.

Dialogue, retribution, schedules, involuting
Bet all, still the teaching winds

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