March 25, 2012

Breakaway

Clothes on the hanger or hugged together in clean mountains. His room
a room. A bright, beautiful room. We make a good effort in a slightly hobling race to hold hands and reach the summit together.

I always glance across the city to point where you cant tell where the grey buildings end and the sky begins. She had put her arm around me without touching me once.

I start drawing my hands, my wrists. Seeing the contours the creases and the scars in oils, pencils, charcoal, pastels. My forearms, one brown one pale on a background of black and red turning to sunshine white and daffodil yellow.

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