Yesterday I saw you staring at the mirrors in the road. I’m not sure you knew what you were looking at.
Tonight, going by your gaze, I could toss you into space and you’d breathe. You’d look at me and laugh, and I’d know you were wishing for a brushed tongue.
When her eyeshadow palette dropped and all the colors broke, I saw you touch the purple. Spread it to your other fingers. I bet you know it’s there, even now.
I can’t judge you. I imagine when you heard about the baby, you didn’t feel much. Not enough junctions for you. I suspect that says more about me, though.
What happens to you when you hear the sounds of the donkey overlapping with the truck and sirens? With a brain as concealed as your own, don’t you just feel drowsy?
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