my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.