murmurs under the skin

can we go to paris, to live violently? magic for
magic’s sake, a sliver of light, a dark shadow in the valley. liking
the shape of people’s mouths as they go soft and you know they are about to kiss you.
I cleaned my room today which means only that I found pressed roses between
every hundred pages of every heavy book.
we are running out of wine, out of clever-skinned clementines.
I am running out of blood in my mouth.

last year’s goals were learning pavlova and big loving. this year’s goal is to long a little less.
new years eve I remember holding two bottles of champagne and the overflow of the bottles
into my hands and our mouths. a boy looked up at me with an O and he was a stranger, but I knew him, and I knew then that I’d break his heart, I knew that I’d wait until dawn
and then take him home to kiss.
it is not that I’m imprisoned by the world, the world is imprisoned by me.
let’s bewitch. let’s be witches. deo, non fortuna.

I knew I’d create a sensation, gasped the rocket. then he went out.