i might swallow wings and let them grow out of my necks.

or i might die to see the generations of fondness grow and die, only to be wiped away in one fell swoop.

i might conquer land, travel through time, see a ghost of be a ghost.

as i fell inlove with a dead boy.

walking, sleeping and howling in silence all at once.
entirely naked, wrapped around with a blanket of loneliness,
it's warmth crawling on bare skin.

a body, wet and dry at the wrong, or maybe the right places.
drawn with light and handbuilt with lead.
moving in, and out of my head.

there is no abstract thought,
just needles, thin ones and thinner ones,
pressing on tight, transparent skins.
embracing green strings that run, popping from the very inside of our skins.
our skins.

and bones. little silver bones.
that crack when they're not twisted. and not crack when they are twisted.
with gaps filled with glue, burrying them into our skins.
a white, sticky, static death.

and absolut darkness.
that runs slowly from vein to vein,
and tickles the corpus callosum until it snaps.
until -
our very mind is black, hidden behind these eyeballs,
and bleed onto our hopeless strands of hair.

then our synapses,
are rusty iron bars,
sweet like april grapes,
dissolve into a mind blowing sweet discourse -
and disappear.

there is a strange wind,
tumbling, rolling onto these skins.
rustling, and restling the neverending resistance
of blood.

You, diluted solution of crimson red.
Will stain now.
On top of nervous trembling green strings of tenderness.
On rusty iron bars, still rusting.
On broken bones that are turning into glass. piece by piece.
On wet skins and dry eyes,
turning into black lace.

you, diluted salty solution on my face.

sometimes, the sad thing is -

when i lack special people in my life;

i look back at life and miss some people so much.