Wash

Wash

do you not think me pretty?
i am stellar hairpins clinging
to your tresses. the august client
subsisting on heartvalves.
the purr, the gallows in weakened pull,
a traction corrosive in most-high growl,
the wanton chalcedony days regressing
to once again a tacked vermilion sky.
a dress once chosen fitting flower-bearers
and mourners long after the fact,
of quaking, of trembling and soulful song
expressed the curiosities’ latest regrets,
meeting at last the conductor’s hand
in mid-tempo, shuffling and stepping down;

i am falling to pieces. i am yours. was.
i look in the mirror and we share the same fate,
nothing changed, just a hint of sepia there,
brushing my dimples in neon glow, with lines swept
upon my face like dried-up rivers, but
from time to time (or minute-to-minute) they boast
a challenge for the amazons, the niagaras, and yangtzes.
my tributaries tremble, my pulses full, i watch
you praying for something. my dearest,
do you not think me pretty
anymore?

— A. P.

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