Sickly sweet,
Your words touch my prefrontal cortex
Like soft burning snow.
Your touch tastes sweeter
Than ice cream
On a humid sun-streaked day.
You,
Frost-borne by the north wind,
Smile like icicles
And pretend you care.
Yet
Addictive cold sugar streams down my throat
When I remember
That you’re here.
Ice cream tastes good in every season
Except winter.
I hold my prefrontal cortex with the shame of
sinking, water lilies seeping from my lips into the grey-green
marsh I call (uselessly)
home.
My mind hisses with the strain of too many canned-up voices
saying
solar-soft night because i stayed up whispering non-existent melodies to the dreaming clouds,
pierced the veil of daybreak with needle-sharp notes-
The tips of our earbuds
Like closed-up flowers, echoing the melodies of drawn-out words
Connect, bone spurs on a spinal cord,
Pure and pearl-white in the midnight
Underneath the sun-bright lone street lamp on 4th Avenue
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