Syx times at sea.
Ask me anything
Syx times more free.
I like to write, if you would like to follow you're more than welcome.
His whisper swept down like a hand that had dived from goose
Lifting me up toward a gliding sail that was vowed to my face
from a fragile male,
Who was laden with picket-fence pride, green-eyed, where once
there were smoldering tears they had dried,
He picked out the sun and the moon from the sky,
And held them together to make me shrine,
His hands, five miles stretched out to mine,
Pouring his bounds on the finishing line.
The stale air punctured with pool lights and invites of
weekend drifters rustling in their middle age,
Eyes lacquered, suspended in dark, and the crumbs of our
adolescence rooted on the page,
Painting your smile with liqueur, bought with crumpled money,
Dripping music like honey, to run and swell in the cracks,
Whispers of the time before us breathing on our backs.
Red bled on our skin,
And the walls began to thin,
Turning to dust passing under our chin,
Crowning our men on a canvas pin.