Sand seeps out of my sleeves, out of my pockets. Persistent seeping for days, till there is nothing left of me but sand. Dig deep into it. Be an archaeologist and make me your field study. Lose your time in me. Suspend your fears in my hair, let the old skin droop, tangle yourself till circulation stops and you turn blue. As the sea.
In loops and spiral staircases I waste my days. I feed on rabbits caught in my loops. From their bones I make more stairs. I am building a tower
(_’–––––––––––––––––––’_)
(_.========================._)
(_’–––––––––––––––––––’_)
(_.========================._)
(_’–––––––––––––––––––’_)
(_.========================._)
(_’–––––––––––––––––––’_)
(_.========================._)
(_’–––––––––––––––––––’_)
(_.========================._)
(_’–––––––––––––––––––’_)
(_.========================._)
(_’–––––––––––––––––––’_)
(_.========================._)
reaching into the void I call my never-ending existence. I cover my scars and bruises, cover my liver spots. I paint a new skin over my old cheetah so children don’t cry at the sight of their tomorrow. Bald cheetah and bald tiger. Dark spots and deep lines to cover. I draw black hair with the needle on my balding scalp. Black turns into blue into grey into white vapour I breath in and exhale aurora borealis. I go to the museum of never ending life to kiss the glass covering a waxy hand. Over soulless flesh my reflection hovers. I leave, but does it still linger there? No one knows. He left yet echo of him is still there. It might very well be that reflection is the only thing left after we are gone.
Sunday morning. You are the sea; sand in my pockets. Don’t be blue. Dance! Vogue as the 9-year-old Robert Jeffrey. Steal his youth and quench my thirst.
