what about
you don’t speak; but, if i put words on you, would you mind? would it delight you to be named? spoken into? claimed as mine to do? for now i see you sitting on this nightstand, shaped by light, shadow, hands, my eyes, but what about word?
lampshade
sunlight streams upwards above my bed frame, for a minute—ah, there is magic; but i am flopped over; i can see you but i can’t seem to take you in like i did a year ago; the lampshade says, it’s dark underneath it’s feet; but, lift me up, tilt me;
silver slips
every clink of a ring linked is a promise on skin, ring after ring like chainmail draped over my head; it gets dark in here, the sun sets; and gets colder too; i am not sure if promises mean anything anymore; but the chains clink with every movement; silver slips over starlight, my lips whispers…
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