«it’s not really poetry but it’s pretty,» he said.
as he raises his voice, she lowers her head.
«it make my heart heavy, you’re lonely, i think.
oh rose, your’re sad i suppose.»
«Look in her bed and she’s bound to be sleeping.
she’s lying there dead — no, she’s breathing.»
furious rose, with your opiate eyes.
your languorous hum, that tone of surprise.
i’ve heard energy in adversity.
your smile: the soul of witchery.
you’re not running away,
you’re not running — are you?
lyrically longing, she’s tearing the words from the page.
she’s fearfully seething.
«bring me your blessings, a prayer, or a new pen.
— you don’t know what i need.»
«look in my bed and i’m bound to be sleeping,
i’m lying there dead, but i’m breathing.
and i’m barely balancing as it is,
and i don’t want to drown in my dreams.
bring me wild plums and agrimony
— i bet you don’t even no what that means.»
furious rose, with your opiate eyes.
and your languorous hum, that tone of surprise.
i’ve heard the energy in adversity.
your smile: the soul of witchery.
you’re not running away,
youre not running — are you?
gingerly peering, over his shoulder, removed herself from the room.
she’s terribly freezing, she always knows when to go.