Sunday, June 22

skin stained face

alongside musty furniture and souvenirs, bathroom adornments hallway decorations, homey frill-i will lay out my voice, fingertips and hair. my spoil, your treasure.

the cursor will align with a few simple notes on a piano, through teary eyes i'll write about a sunrise or a morning with a smooth storm stroking everyone's brow while they rise.

you'll find me here whispering to a plant.

1 comment:

Joanne Cucinello said...

Your writing is unique and mind-bending. I like it.
There are days others too have whispered to plants . . . including myself!