peripheries
your thoughts walk six steps ahead, restless as
you move among them, keeping their eyes open.
searching for signs; twitches in secondhand
fingers which sketch faceless images, probing
freckled cheekbones for patterns which turn to
confetti and scatter like adjectives.
my skin is not a word– it is glass, your
handprints find themselves there. magic in
memories, or bodies seeking habits
in which to become forgetful– to see
with closed eyes and sponge away havoc
like a keen ache. too many honesties
will never be enough, but we blow them away,
settling for wishes of being caught as we fall.
