Writing

Life Cycles 

the moon,
the smell of melting cement tales of others
the taste of blood on my gums

entangled hair, heavy breathing

a bus ride
we both hide behind walls impenetrable

lie,
no one is immune to feeling
a shirt drops
Now the sheet smells like cement

A lion’s fur,

I sit on the bed
touching places fingers have traveled in the past

unfortunately not in the present but perhaps in the future

one bite,
and everything I thought I knew

Sinks
down a deep deep deep hole

the moon
again, the moon.