A certain cinder catches in the milk. Autumn’s leaving. I have sensed it stealing me away.
Piles of wet, shiny, healthy leaves in the driveway of a mind.
So what if he took a few for sampling, put them under the microscope. It’s not that I had a drop of milk to give.
I watched seasons 1-3 of the show about silver wives.
He said there was a terrible anomaly: that’s all that’s wrong. He held me like nobody has ever held me before.
Winter passed through our embrace. I was a shook tree full of all of him inside me. Cinder.
Where did it come from? I was so full of the yellowing leaves. I was a choleric childlessness. I was let out at night.
mariaology 