sometimes our lives are
more than just that,
and saturday afternoon funerals are
not closure enough.
we'd wait on the porch one cloudy november,
not thinking not moving just wondering why
that stinging nostalgia so blatantly missing was
just--
that

they tell us, baby doll, you wouldn't
want your last memory to be such a memory,
but they don't know what our last memories
were. we wake up in the mornings to dark rooms and drawn curtains,
the only things we see are rows of grave markers
in stark contrast to our pasts
and they think (they know) they've
given us closure.

today (tomorrow) is just another 24hours of our lives.

thirty seconds before 12am, and the clocks are
freezing again--

there's too much fog on
the windows to see out, much too perfect to
even touch,
it's just our stuck-up curiosity lingering in
shadowed corners leftover from
yesterday's latest break.up--
they're phenomenal in the best possible ways
disillusioned from already-leaked secrets,
and the world outside is too late
anyway.

there's a little orphan girl across the street,
selling matchsticks for money;
she leans against frozen lampposts to catch
her
breath, (cold against the winter air)
she dreams of opaque windows blinded by
warmth and heat, but--
it's our fogged windows she cannot see through
and our locked doors she doesn't step through
but our latest sins are too strong
even for those glass windows.

we're sipping lukewarm poison in front of
the fireplace,
taking life for granted in our most
favorite ways while
the little girl
falls
asleep
as her last match burns out.

a/n. trying something new. rhymes in the most disjointed way, atonal in the least expected phrase, almost like the best kind of contemporary music. hehe♥ thoughts?

it's the adrenaline at work, says goldilocks, in the
midst of this pandemic, and the brothers grimm suddenly
the epitome of placebo-pill-endings.
they're checking their reflections in polished leather boots and
doing last-minute touchups on those semi-automatics.
it's not truly a war and not truly a battle, maybe as real as
the tales of three blind mice.

they remember the rules of the game and still
come home in body bags.