Poltergeisting before my time, unwashed, unshaven, stacked against calendar days littered with torn corners and forgotten by all but those beauties held close and mumbled disappointments wending back to dinner tables’ unsought advice.
Of midnights’ hair held back against sickness and white porcelain winters gone to spring and harvest gold.
To a box of penknives and broken watches.
The line I’ve drawn to your heart. This is the line I’ve drawn to your heart.
