to years ago,

some small part of you maybe still.

You remember his name

he knows.

Not much else,

he thinks.

You stare at dark nothings.

You could still call,

shrink time

a bit

in the oven

of your room.

You could pull it down

to size,

widen his breath

and eyes,

but you drop,

lie

for an hour

to music he taped

and sleep

again.

Outside Your Host is a post from: Pif Magazine

Still some magic left

in numbers

though there was time

and minnows,

small sticks

to flame,

days and nights inseperable

through touch.

Limbs.

In a way we were one tree,

but half of us

dead.

D. Days is a post from: Pif Magazine

of the reservoir

opened secrets

of skin

and reopened

until we would lie

more than walk.

Perfect android lines

of what I wanted

and you knew.

Playful.

And the smell on the wind

some days still

ten miles away

and that is the closest

I come

because that place is you

repressed.

The forcefulness of truth

and lack therein.

Sometimes I would give it all away

to have it all back.

Orange, Black, Green, The Carpet; The Sand is a post from: Pif Magazine

of your

water eyes

blurring into t.v. blues,

you’re on the edge

of his bed

and it’s obvious

you’re still thinking

it was yours

for a while.

A short while.

You’re tired,

levitating

above the legal percentage,

seeing everything

in doubles.

You’re staring too hard

too long

and trying not to know

that neither on of him

will ever come

back.

I Know is a post from: Pif Magazine