Deconstructed our memories until all I was left with was a pile of ashen, auburn leaves.
Learning to breathe free from lungs disposed of the phrase "we" proves to be difficult midst a sea of need and oppressive dreams.
I dream of the seams torn between surfaces that cling to the dawning of spring.
Post-winter denial, smiles in shivers, beguiled by words spoken in whispers, hindered and trialled upon the whimpers of bones separating as splinters.
All injury echoes quietly, held tongues conspiring against tired wounds elated with new bloom, consumed in a bed of lilac hues.
When the sunlight stretches it aches for you.
The truth is I grow thin within the fallacies of sin and simplicity; significantly incessant on such obsessions of worry.
Blindly stumbling on "sorrys" and sorrowful stories; the scorn of these flurries tempts nothing but earnestness.
Honesty wills such pain to play permanence, these letters remain askew for the details to slip furthest from the patterns of overuse.
The symptoms linger beyond the concept of faded truths.
This welcome was well over stayed, I will clean these fumbled mumblings and be on my merry way.

Winter I

One morning, I awoke from troubled dreams to find that I had transformed into a mass of moss and earth.

Winter I

Deer Bile