Miss Taken
Goodbye is not allways. Patching jeans with some careless seams; stuffing pockets—too full with fruit of unions loom. Sometimes she spins bicycles, creating needs for the fork into the gold rung worn path perpetually tread. Pared fruits, parting kisses, jarred honey drips for dipping the long road’s broken token bread; wrapped and kercheifed—rod to tow. Rage thumb-wars with heaven s(p)ent apple seeds fo(u)r (or more(or less)) eyes.
Be low.
1 year ago