Little [Random] Things

please one day wake up in a whole new skin like everything can disappear under the stutter of a single heart beat and if the moon drowns me first it might even be okay for this thing called tears no one knows but me that I have no bones the only person who cannot live like this unable to locate the exact coordinates of my elbows

On the train the worst and best place to sit is the back (or maybe the front, if you're one of those people who like to have their noses in every conversation). Lucille's exhaustion billows in violet clouds around her shoulders, turns out that coffee is less efficient than blood when it comes to the arteries. In front there are backs of heads bald ones, dark ones, pale ones, heads that bob, heads that slant to one side, heads pushed together as if they were holding hands. This is the life , they had all said, back in the days when blinking was for the eyes and not the head. She is the wielder of the Six Figure Salary, the sharpest sword of them all, yes? Somewhere in the fringe of her memories there exists the weighty flightiness of wishes half borne into dreams; No, Rob , she hisses, you cannot leave the kids at home to go to the pub. If Lucille squints the heads merge into one messy cloud--she rubs her eyes, lately it is becoming difficult to distin...

I am in Love with the way your words look on the page the neat way all the letters fit Together and the hefty weight of their Echoes on my tongue and I am so in Love that it doesn't even occur to me that I am Choking for is it not true that only You can see the hard outlines of undigested Alphabets lining the insides of my esophagus

Sometimes you are shell-shocked by the feel of a letter curved under the wrinkly skin where your fingers meet your palm. There is a tangy chew to the rounded edges of an O perfectly positioned three-sevenths of the way down a stack of letters, precariously close to the sharpened vertex of an S. At dark hours when there are only your thoughts and the weight of silence on your eyelids, you even think that you could die--right then and there--if you might only find a way to string together the perfect sentence with the exact proportion of words and letters clasped snugly around your throat.