cake-batter air makes soft
cookies that stick to the bottom of an unfloured
glass sheet and the lower shelf of my stomach
Grachelle is breathing behind me, an inhalation longer
than exhalation, a syncopated sleeping song.
warm water, now cold, drips down my hair and onto my thigh
which intersects my other thigh like a cross stitch
some then slide down my leg like a shooting star
while others form a puddle, shivering in the cookie stained night
to enlarge and break apart into a streaming tear
nowhere found physical in this space, are my thoughts which diverge
half as words and half as longing
the segment in words now becomes a marquee in your head
a carousel in lights
the other part of longing, through indirect passages of thought and written language,
careful ornamentation of similes and subtleties
will perhaps find its way to you
always a unicorn ahead, or a carriage behind
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