jaymebelle
The crew in her hair were merely illusory.
I had nothing to think about, so I put words in my mind about how the transport in London was just covering up for route taken between worlds. And for a little while I could truly believe it.
Trains run both ways.
Well, I met you at the junkyard, you were looking kind of pale. Wondering if any of the colours matched any of the books that laid on your bed. You said look after me when I'm lost, it's hard for me to make sense of things, when all my feints have fallen and my mind is searching for memories that don't make me long for the past.
Tired of living my three different lives, all this noise like a constant siren in my head feeding me more reality than I can bear to take.
Imagine everything, tiny composed bedfellows and interrupted dreams, disturbed by my onliest desire for a scalp-born feathering. It may have occurred to me to leave this serene sight, this portrait of faucet water and rindless fruit, but I remain here instead, lawfully, past this dark.
Bear with me, bury your neck and chin so I don't have to encounter somebody brooding over my shoulder. It is so isolating in these wastes, far from any place or person I am fond of, so we journey quickly from one place to another to avoid enduring such sorrows of the skin.
I can't tell the time, it confuses my insides.
I sleep to escape her, because I can't keep burying her in the garden.
Books in rows with speckled spines, crooked perhaps, and all with missing pages; they are now scattered all across the mahogany floorboards which grace the deep divide between your feet and mine.
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