it's a downhill tossing of daises from here

i'll introduce you to this long slender dragging of time. in fact it is approaching quite coyly. the thought of a light so shyly decoiling. the nerve in my stomach vibrating wildly ordering strawberry milk shakes. i hold my own hand folding in on the nearness of my thoughts. existing on the very tip of my eyesight. my entire consciousness laying flat over my eye gliding along as mere molecules and particles, mere evidence so they passed off, of our existing differences and difference between us. between you me and the rolling spring(of a wailing fold-out mattress). between the darkness of the entertaining curtain outside, that forest darkness created solely out of sin and orchestrated burials. so compared to the blinking coffin closeness off your own lid, keeping you pressed in, keeping your scent in the books you read, the flowers sprouting in your head. i step in. elevator doors shutting, down dripping like ice crystals off of the edge of the deepest sheets. glacier blankets.
however, ignored is the silence of sleeping. all is wakened by the sound of your own voice, a sucking in quickly of breath, the clasp twist of a lantern light. reaching out from a gloomy longthought, a light flick of a moth wing finally says what was so sundried unsaid all afternoon before. ("she's lost her mind, her usual unrecognized self") so it goes, so much further, this welling farness coming up closer so soon on her. Through clawmouth fog that light glows, speaks in double-dog dares purely untold. eerie as any moonkisser knows of lonely-lipped, practically stone lonely unknown. cold cold light comes. coolly throbbing, between more brown clothes. bright, like light down a dense throat, with soft drunken mumbling encircling. "yes, yes, i mean it." this lantern still and soundly approaching. gently pulsing, emanating from a whispering bottlecap lick of some mournful areola. from that less than leaking measure of cruel distance, i pinch some tit of timed tenderness and then tuck it in my intestine filled with rocks of crumpled tin foil and worries and dead skins. all mixed up in a brothy-whimed stick up. we both realize we ruined this all on purpose. the pale beige glass vase is broken and the flowers have fallen on the ground back to the way we like it.
"and that's it. you win. and baby all the rest is after when we are blessed. and no thoughts will last longer than the rest. "