Imaginary versions of ourselves are picked
over by the eyes of all around us.
Like a liquid statue vomiting out smaller and
smaller variations of itself, ever upward, until
the details fade away.
She stands in the mirror and points a lens at their reflection, so
she can hold on to the time, and so can they.
A flame laid against the blood of thousands
they will never know, and still they show the insides of their eyelids.
Clinging desperately to our hours we watch
the raindrops slide across the light of our
screens, and refuse to wipe away what gets
between us. Jellyfish covered beaches are
substituted in textbooks for orchards full of
peaches. There never was a day we didn’t
lie.
Teleporting Typewriter 