forme

the key around rachel's neck rests above her white night gown. stars lit the ribbons swimming through that strong fabric. her hands and hips are pink. her cheeks and forehead make me think of mother of pearl. if i had a friend like a mother it'd be her, i think. i miss swimming at night. i miss cold skies, the razor sharp form of the moon. i miss the imaginary slices embedded in hands, that gave way to comfort because they inscribed, and marked for familiarity. recognition. like breadcrumbs on the path. i want to sleep on rachel's room floor again, so we can lock hands in sparse moments. i miss warm breakfasts.

not much i can say that is sparse enough to hang properly. i have much dead weight on me. the secret is: it's not dead. it's kind of sputtering and mewing and coughing. such illness, my neglect. i spend too much time away from my neediest thoughts, but never quite let them go. half buried pension, tension. i'm not good at working to find gold.

the sad truth right now is, i find copper and tin already pretty enough.