XxCrazyAppleGirlxX

I met him once                (in echoes sunk against worn walls) and I played his ageless tune–                his melodies storytelling palindromes of sorrows my ears his confessional my nimble fingers his rosary for he confided in me tender prayers–                reminisces unbidden from the core (swollen with grief):                “ she was soulful beauty                perfection of humanity in all the ways that are ignored                but i relished her                                –her labored breathing, her feats to strike my chords                i was her listener                

Location: Desmond's cruddy apartment Time: 2:43 P.M. (after brief lunch) It was sweltering outside. And Desmond's crappy air conditioner didn't make things much better inside the cramped apartment. In fact, it didn't help that eight other people were here. Not one fucking bit. "Bloody hell Yank. Couldn't you afford anything better than this lousy contraption? I think maybe it's time to upgrade from the bartender level, yea?" As usual, Shaun Hastings wasn't letting up; despite having his face shoved into the very technology he criticized. "No one asked you to come over Shaun," Desmond snapped. Lounging on his sofa, he wasn't even sure why

we'll take a walk in the fall, holding hands without touching and we'll live in the birdhouse we found, sharing stories of misadventure; muffling our giggles beneath the constellations. i'll spread the breadcrumbs and we'll sleep in them and you'll cover our heads with the stardust falling from our eyes. we'll laugh all the way, painting the october morning with our twinkling reds and yellows and oranges and then we'll knit the pile of leaves we raked into the world we hold in our palms. and it'll be the very best fall we ever fell.

dreaming up castles made from bubbles resting alongside the hand of father time, the pigeon's coos popped them one by one till the ruins even then were no more and he whispered and prayed, fervent trembling at the peak of the bell's toll for twelfth was its final slide and soon he would fall soon, he thought, it would rain the clouds would battle like soldiers during guerrilla warfare and their clashes would thunder lightening and it would strike him, and he would weep letting the tears speak what his god never listened to

poet laureate discovering asylum in our echoes there, among our empty seats and beneath our cushions settling deep in our seams and cotton we hear your slides and calls they are our voices unheard... too we share one moment - fleeting, we live where ghosts once passed and wept where we now listen and smile from the ornate darkness you call and from the carpeted ground we rise to applaud