Sometimes it's

glass ankles, glass

jaws, copper

kettles, warm

floors. 

Tricky fingers, happy

feet, saying 

grace, eating

sweets.

Rotten apples, little

toe, seen you

somewhere, making 

those

amazing pieces of lace, like those ladies did with their shawls wrapped around their heads. 

My Mind: My Eclipse.

As the rain falls, it pats my pink face.

I remember that this is not the time, 

nor the place.

I hang up my weary, yellow, jacket

and my dead sunglasses.

Realising

I am not just a sweet pair of arms

nor your play thing.

But something upon which to unload

your wares, your muscle:

A hammam for sweating bodies;

A mat for muddy shoes.

Far more than being your

pretty picture.

More troublesome than a

Lone Soldier.

Greater than Love,

Greater than Sorrow.

Instances of Abbreviation and Joy - R. Rosier

Perhaps you are too 1234 for me.

Perhaps  I treat you like 5678.

Either way

you have been unified.

Uniformed, with the intricacy your

mother first dressed you with, with a tear rolling down her foundation cheek, and her hair curling with beads of salty sweat. Black and stuck in locks. Her heart racing and her shaking hands outstretched.

This is how you became.

A Minifauvinelle. April Fool.

Listening to the empty rattle of my broken breath.

Asphyxiated by the surprise that

I can't remember where I left myself.

Woken by the flicker of something laid to rest:

Watching without my eyes.

Listening to the empty rattle of my broken breath.

Someone else wears out my socks and my shoes,

not marking the pathways so

now I can't remember where I left

myself.

Tickled by a glimmer of something left - 

A nothing I can almost trace,

and still, the empty rattle of my broken breath.

I retreat to another, further twelve,

counting and counting again.

But I can't remember where I left myself.

Bright red blocks of a better living death

I hear the empty rattle of my broken breath

I can't remember where I left myself.