I don't know the town where I was born.

Playing House

I stood in the 9x5 kitchen washing a single dish like a doll in my very own game of house.
The bedroom's decorated with a parasol of paper, bonsai, and paintings made from the hand of my very best friend. Same song on repeat,
it's always the same. I am the same
tiny girl
squirreling away clips and inspiration, chords,
delicate melancholy riffs that shatter sadness like an icicle dropped.
That liquid/
vapor/
solid,
it's all the same.

long, long, long

 

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jWSFdIAEUU

twenty-one-cent stamps

We wrote postcards to each other, you and I, and sent messages on wisps of wind.
Our secrets pressed against dreams and wove seamlessly into moments evaporated by the sun.

You may have forgotten, or failed to feel, the kisses sent like pollen down the coast that pressed in breezy afternoons onto your profile. We wrapped each other like ace bandages around injuries from unrefereed games, those antics of youth.

May I make a request?

Can you call me Bloomberg? Bloom for short.