Your tiara is sideways

Hearing every song new.

Every song’s new.

They bubble and froth,

and chase each other down backs,

and up thighs.

They pluck nerves,

those numerous angle-hair-pasta strands,

and make finger tips feel songs,

like knees feel sinking.

The bells play sparks on eyelids,

and tease upturned lips,

and everything tastes like watermelon,

and smells like summer.

My toes get cold sometimes.

Your knitting needle fingers are losing count in my hair,

and even though the knots are off,

I’ll still bite your cheek bones. 

Ruins

In a hallway where the mirrors face each other

I echo unbounded essence.

Down that hallway,

my steps are infinite.

Where the mirrors face each other,

they echo down sideways.

They echo down.

They echo.

Each reiteration is a purification, a recrystallization,

of the essence of me.

I’ll calibrate them,

the steps, I mean.

Make sure they match each other;

make sure the mirrors can’t see any inconsistency.

Then I’ll place my hands on both sides,

and press.

I’ll leave the hall,

and those tiny,

unseen fissures behind,

and the next person who walks into the room

will watch them shatter,

and they will never know why.