Sunday, March 21


You bitch,
You promised.
And the trees sit still, holding bad breaths with an air of suspicion, at the impending decision. I grovelled, and crawled and licked the floor and wrote her name, to soothe my antagonism. But it flamed up to beat me down, to keep the head level down to the floor and smell it by the cold surface. It is not reminiscent, but it jumps on my breasts endowing them with a certain heaviness that I want removed. Discard, this minute, this fleeting minute when it turned one. When you promised, what now do I do with memories floating to be formed? Of dreamless sleep, and beautiful touches, and a feather screaming through; lifting me against the moon, for her to see.