midnight spellings, of divine combination, exuding fatalism in key strokes and awkward touches of light over a grim pale. she casts her eyes, immoral and indecisive, at a spark of glittering silver.
pictures the vine ripened clot of blood, curling down ones wrist strung out on the bloody red sheets, the hue of the jumpers halo.
one, two, three, its time to sleep again, cant get to bed sleeps for the dead.
she locks the thoughts which twist up her thighs closed in, weeping for ascension, drowning by kilometers.
it seems so frugal to press kisses against parted lips on sidewalks slick with other peoples spit, when all she wants to do is line her bed with someone who does not want to lie in it.