Twelve is the Name of Everything We've Never Loved

I took your hand in my small confused mind and cupped your cherry face in my hands but could never look into your eyes and see that you could still hear the flights of the terrors of the future. We gripped the side of the talons of fear and held on for dear death in hopes that the fall would be beautiful. The crashing burn of life and the fire of the inhabitants of each fickle hour we spend. Tired orgasms that rang over and over inside the television man's tilted screen. Gasping for life and a longing for a beautiful way to spill over into the furthest dimension. The crackle of bones and the smile of the saddest man wounded each creature that conquered what they had feared the most. Each movement of the bowing ferns turned the next new birth into plummet into the darkest chasm.

While the world slept in the tiniest thimble, the scientists fell victim to the woes of the mind and cowered underneath the veil of smoke and exhaustion. Beakers and vials to cure the hunger of the window's sadness and kill the disease of each shattered glass window. The mathematician fought against the fallen trees but only used the constants of their own realities to solve the bottled emotions that plagued the tired houses. The rain slid its fingernails down the side of her face and took her happiness and sold each piece back to the ocean. But her limbs knew her better than she thought had kept the pace of the tracks as they skipped and babbled on the record player. Collapsing onto the white hospital floor, her head struck open with the calls of reality and the crickets and frogs sprung from her. The fragments of love hovered through her being and touched every lonely man so that he, for a brief moment, knew the feeling of a punch from the wars of the past. She lay on the white floor and smiled at the mirrors and bandages that got her here. The warm lick of fire grazed the soul of the lost socks in the washer that no longer wanted someone to find them. Screaming from every rooftop, she knew that the loss and magic of death were kept in a tiny vial on the kitchen counter. White walls, white house, white clothes, white wine. Wrapped in the securities of knowing her own father, she lifted every pine needle inside her and felt her way to the glass. The tapping of her woodpecker hand on the opaque eyes of every onlooker rustled the time frame under which she understood reality. All the scientists saw was a dead body with the answer to the half life of love.


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I was gonna do another but I'll do it later. Pickled fish lips.