skeletal

love letters, missed connections, and uneasy vehicles smoking in the plains somewhere distant. you gnawed my ear black n blue and my frightened doctor tried to diagnose it melanoma, but there's no use counting yr eggs before they're hatched. counting yr books before you've read them.

pretty is kind of a mystery, but for its oh-so-handy appeal. sometimes i want a second shot at every conversation, at every encounter. i want to collect checks from all sides, past and present, so i can spin like a whirligig spewing out payments of my own. i can't believe how old you are, and how young. i can't believe what a tease i am. (cousins agree.)

the skeleton, the sky. the perversion of an ideal that is already, admittedly, by virtue of being an ideal, subject to incompletion.

to flaws.

a toast!

spread yr legs like pages of a book and i'll read you bedtime stories. crawl on softly-bruised knees to the edges of yr own allegorical devices; show me you can pick dandelions with yr toes and i'll subscribe to yr infrequencies once and for all.

i don't know. i'm tired of all these stupid games, but i can't seem to shake free of their intoxicating grip.

maybe the secret is to never step back.