the tired sun sits quietly on your windowsill, and he tells you all the ways to describe the color 'dream:'
it's the color of booths in a catholic church, patches of wood so worn by prayers that the gloss is replaced by soft grooves; the color of lullaby blankets in cribs that still smell like department store; the color of creamer spilled into your addiction late-afternoon coffee. it's the color of endearments scribbled on old paper and tucked between hard-covers. it's the color her voice makes as she tilts it into your own mouth, her lips torn to a red mess by nervous habit. it's the color of biscuits and egg shells, alabaster and parchment, lace and linens.
it's the off-white, milky color of chilly tables. a soft color, one that boring people like to call "beige."
but these are the words he uses:
"old old,"
"adventure,"
"grandeur,"
"soft simplicity" and "clouds,"
"fortunes" read in the remains of muddy "tea leaves."
the tired sun sighs as he flutters across your room, leaving light-striped patterns on the carpet. he sees "you" there, rocking back and forth against your bed frame - that's another nervous habit, one that makes you "afraid."
YOU ARE READING
Teach Me How To Fly a Plane: An Insomniac's Guide to Falling
Poetrythis collection sets aside religion and reality for the sake of a personal pipe dream. a mixture of poetry and short stories, the topics of these works are the kinds of things i think about in my free time, so.. whatever that tells you about me as a...
