"my cold and rusty winter heart blew bubbles and sank deeply into the Fall disguise," he sighed. breathing ever heavily into the pockets of thick (thick) air that so significantly surrounded his furrowed brow. upward motion and smokey, flat breathing. the kind that swirled around your eyelids and implanted wet creases. poetic, he was. and he would be, inside a poem. as bleeding is made for those who bleed, and most of the world had bandaids. cutting him open, slicing word veins. there would be no longer the moments that felt poignant, for those moments were gone. crumbling up the poetic fervor, paper birds ignite.
the boy that was, is.
the boy that is. changed
as a world patched with bandage birthed a boy born to bleed.