Our tender beginnings hollow us.
Time and death stand between our plinths, touching us not but bearing away our naked bodies to thick winds.
too gone to admit frailty,
we offer up our mother’s cloths to the other. We meet at platitudes and the early calling of slumber.
slip along weeping glass
Yours, I think, drum the windowsill with a dull roar watching the rain choke out the embers.
What lies between us
Is not nature’s vengeance.
It’s this cotton sea and the glowing slate in front of me
but the words will not come.
Neither will the morning
and so, we are dragged into the cortisol of the night.
I can’t help but see you floating.
Texting that girl with mournful red lips the epitome of innocence, indifferent to our shy insolence.
The window, the interim.
The corrosion in the faults, the silences, the hungry touch
It is not the end
but the opening.
Why should we sit at our own tables, watching for the same sick cow’s milk to sour?
About the Creator
Hi I'm Abby. I am poor AF so I post challenge titles without entering. You will be doing your girl a favour and funding her monthly Vocal subscription by reading this material.
Stay woke, Save the Animals and Eat Katie Hopkins.