something like 90% of dust is dead human skin
who, then,
are these people swept unceremoniously away?
what stories are told in these discarded
layers,
lines,
and plump little piles in the corner of the windowsill?
this collection of sloughed skin
speaks of the time when his trembling fingers
wandered below her sweater
(just before getting caught)
to discover what then was real…
this dirty residue is a reminder
of wicked games under covers,
of secrets, lies,
and forfeiture of virginities
[in the freshly polished wood it becomes easier to see
that the person wiped away
was me]
Author notes
Musing on things... not my best.
Comments
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Wow, even surrounded by so many obnoxious peers this has still managed to fill my heart with a sort of warm uncertainty and make my breath catch. This is really beautiful Wurthermore, I adore, Adore...J'adore <-french.
"[in the freshly polished wood it becomes easier to see
that the person wiped away
was me]"
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This is a thinking piece, I like it.
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Still very good
Skin is best when it's been "used" and flakes to tracks showing the journey. Like scars...that one was this...that one took me there...this one meant (something). Life is like skin meant to be "used" it leaves a trail and you follow it back...and back...and foreward...and.
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