The archives of the hippocampus flourish
Tangent memory seen through a pane of frosted rose-glass
Infinite ghosts of brainspun matter grey
Heed nothing from inarticulate moving lips
Hear without the oscillation of sound waves
A knife sharpener beeline to the left hemisphere
You don’t have to talk to them. Look to the sky.
You can run. You can fall. You can kill. You can fly.
Rust iron hooks find their way between the ribs
Find purchase between the lungs
The final phantom with a familiar face reels you
Flinch. Here her heart’s equally exposed.
A promise of potentiality locked beyond the blood-brain barrier
The skin peel of heartbreak in microscopic minutiae
Man has the gift of rapid-eye, military-grade, neurons firing
Any conversation at
any time in
I love you.
I always have.
We can be honest here.
The arctic bedsheet melts with tears
Rolling down from a lonely mountain range