mimosaeyes
singing to the moon
standing in the sand and the water
thinking if this were a sink-hole I'd be long gone
but instead I'll be a pipe dream
for a blind elater
they say the cycles make me a lunatic
well I'll stick to it
I'll bring you the moon
to be, still
He was always standing on his tiptoes to peer over the fence at the roses in her back garden. Sometimes the dog dug up the flowerbeds and he would watch the dippets like they were craters on a faraway moon — fascinating to him, promising infinities.
It's always made sense to her that the loudness of a sound is referred to as its volume. She knows how sound can fill a room and fill a mind. A gunshot, a whisper, and a lullaby.
Choice is a luxury, and so, predictably, is a torment to those privileged enough to enjoy it.
"Before you ask, I'm holding up just fine."
"You've been crying."
"I haven't. Just dust. In my eyes."
"Know something about dust?"
"What?"
"You can't quite sweep it up. There'll always be some left, in the corners. If you want to be really thorough, it needs to be washed out. With water, perhaps."
"...Thanks."
"Always glad to share housekeeping tips."
"I'm fun-sized," she enthused defensively, at a decibel so large in magnitude she more than made up for it.
Still, her brother mused, she'd always be his little sister.
On lonely nights, she wondered idly: if I couldn't speak and had to use sign language to communicate what I thought or felt — would you have looked at me, then?
It's my ends; they need fixing
Always splitting and
dividing
themselves—
Of course I've been taking care
of my hair, myself...
yeah, I've missed you, too
I'm a messy crier, on the rare occasions that I really get into it. My nose becomes blocked and my breath hitches in my throat till my stomach hurts and my lips feel tender. And all that places me far from TV's dainty weepers, but I'd rather not cry alone. Because I too easily mistake that for being alone.
They tell me at this juncture I am the master of my fate.
I don't want to be servant to it, either, but maybe just bringing it breakfast in bed every now and again would be okay.
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writing since 2012 · 26 entries · 26 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means mimosa showed up.
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the words mimosa reaches for
wordwordsstandingsweetholdingthinkingnowbrokensometimesfillmoondoorfemalenoticenobodyspent