The Curvature Of OhMore Like This
Tod's a mute, it doesn't matter why. It doesn't matter why, but Tod's a mute. He sometimes wants the world to spin so fast that he's on the other side and he's singing, he's singing so loud that the crows in the rooftops stop their noise because there isn't any point because no-one's listening, because they're all listening to Tod. God stops to hear Tod sing. But Tod can't sing, not at the rate this world spins. He can't sing.
Tod starts to paint. Starts in his room at the sound of the door, but the sound's only so loud because it never comes from his mouth the way we sometimes surprise ourselves with words we never planned. Starts to paint with his right hand and learns to spoon chicken noodles into his mouth with his left, and Tod paints around a plate and stares at the daubed red sun that's hollow and always mouthing Oh.
When the couple across the street walk out of their front door a few mornings later they're on their way to work and on their car (it is red) is written: Go To Slee
Butterfly trapsWe caught butterflies in our eyelashes that nightMore Like This
Long woven traps of false intricacies
They were so beautiful
The way the sweat,
the heat of the night glistened off their lightly dusted wings.
The skies played symphonies in our heads
The constellations we traced in the grass
The blank slates lying in our fingertips waiting to be drawn
Maps lying up and down our legs
We sailed in the red waters, tasting the murky fog
weaving through our hair
between interlocked fingers
through the tear ducts of our eyes
came the sharp taste on the tip of your tongue.
I liked the way you looked at me
As if the dry sands spraying in my throat could cease
The skies would whisper sweet reminders
that there is no such thing as tomorrow
And the look in your eyes would say it all.
The dancing light reflecting the ignited air between us,
The butterfly traps in our eyelashes
The maps of our skin
The currents of our breath
The curiosity of our eyes
The way the grass rolled over us that night and the
You.You are the small droplets of splattered paint that were never meant to be but somehow hold everlasting beautyMore Like This
You are the crooked zipper that took a few extra tugs but always came through in the end, interlocking two sides perfectly.
You are the euphoric thought that rushes through my head at the best of times and the worst of times, that knot in the back of my throat choking my words, the crack in the ground that catches my eye I've suddenly collided with because I've fallen without the least possible thought.
You are flawless.
You are everything I want to be, everything I want to have in my grasps.
You are the dirt under my fingernails I carry with me unknowingly, that infects my body and turns my veins brown.
You are the eyes I wear at nighttime when I look into the hallway and hope the creaking came from a familiar foot.
You are the oils in my fingertips that make me feel worthless and unclean, that make me want to be perfect, but also the whisper in my ear that speaks to me, tell