A song is a skipping stone on a bone-still lake, roads deep dropping into the stomach of the found. One hundred times a water kiss — the head tilt familiar naming something for the city sunset hungry. Then the submerge — playing fish-scales down as lonely bubbles and calling bells meet in new and old voices. LJ Ireton, March 2026.
Seven years of not close enough: of lust embroidered buttons, your bristled cheeks ruby flush with the me you can't have; you would shiver, King. Now you act like you don't remember anything, glare with impatience at the goblet you drank from, turning my bones pewter. Did you taste your wine, notes of clove while lifting your hand, a sign for another? My eyes flash silver, teeth clenched from the edge. I am everything you wanted to undress, except the present tense. C. LJ Ireton, 2025
Night-shrugging the bags from my shoulders, the worst part walking is the nearly home but not — when I turn the street corner and stranger, I am stilled by the cascade of electric stars across your garden trees, turning my evening gingerbread and this whole dark December to dotted lights. C. LJ Ireton, 2025
Comments
Post a Comment