this milky silence in your iris

 Dialogue need only be exercised when necessary. When necessary a clack of the tongue. Heavy breath on the telephone seconds before you pick up. Uncoiling wires of the brain when necessary the brain itself an instrument quite necessary.

*

Boxing the puzzle pieces in chronological order, trying to jigsaw your way back to daylight. Someone somewhere on a sailboat is unpacking lunch and savoring low tide. On the shore another weeps over lost love.

*

You once read it on the cover of a paper pamphlet, time slips right before your eyes. The blank stares like canvases the universe simply hasn’t touched yet. And there it goes again. Seconds swallowed by minutes and minutes melting into hours. Last autumn you said you’d measure your days in coffee sips from here on out. 244. When will sleep make peace with your tear ducts.

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pulse in sweaty palms and love

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There is longing where your ankles meet. In the flex of your chin and around the swirls in your ear. Dug your tongue deep into longing, never belonging to palpitation. Pulse like passionfruit pulp in a tall glass of sweaty palms. One kiss for your sweet memory. The sting of hyperreality on your tongue. Lips make stains on desperate, warm necks. And you are walking still with the color of my touch.

the only door that does not creak

how does it feel when yours is the only door that does not creak. privately she speaks to me in sunlit secrecy. i asked my god to take a walk through my prefrontal cortex. the core of my existence whispered hymns of muslim magma. melting on my botus brain, beliefs of pollination. neurology is nectar-filled so feed me food for thought. where do you go when daylight closes clouds for corporations. when mosques are masks for ignorance and religion’s disintegrating. hold my hand and pray because today don’t mean tomorrow.

eight-layer honey cake recipe

gently pour three cups of flour into deep silver basin of hope. stir lightly after cracking two ambient eggs with their yolks screaming sunlight. with the finger of your choice add two dollops of honey. this will remind you that burnt cakes still waft sweetness from their crusts. remember that one burn that blistered bouts of insomnia and the names you tried to forget. build your cake from the bottom up. your first layer will collect crumbs the way you’ve crossed paths with fragmented love. so used to light leaking in from wholes in god’s shoes, by the fourth layer you’ll probably think yourself undeserving of this cake. continue to coat the fifth with whipped cream and whispers of your favorite words. remember the night poetry let you swim past midnight and the moon got the sun a little too tipsy on cheap wine and red velvet. remember lipstick stains in empty bedsheets still ready to warm more bodies. remember rhythm when dance was a game you played in your sleep. prepare more cherries for the fall. sixth layer will be sour. it will taste like fresh piano morning intimacy in a sea of drowned music sheets. symphonies only your fingers know by heart will keep your head above the water. let them carry you home. and when you feel like nightmare and loneliness decided to move your limbs for you, remember that there are still. two more layers and endless poems in between.