What was
What was
That dream I had…
Fresh paper cuts-three of them-on the palm of your right
hand. No idea how they got there. With the fore- and
middle-fingers of your left hand, push the skin just so on
either side of the longest cut making the thin slice separate.
Lean in closer. Blood pools in the narrow crevasse then
eases toward your wrist.
Lips parted, touch your warm tongue to the russet trickle.
Shoulders rise. Your blood tastes of Fruit-Loops and fungus,
and your mouth dries like that time you shared a young
persimmon with friends around a patio table.
Something about the apricot hue of the light on the wall
gives you the distinct feeling you’ve been here before.
Look up, lips and eyes pursed. Your shoulders drop. Only
then do you realize the mess you’ve made.
