It is too soon for one, not soon enough for others. I have a fresh tongue on me, like fresh tongue on leaf. Still a freckle of a beat of a brush against a soft facepart. Still white hairs across my cheeks whispered by a steady hand. Still, I hold in the air. Though a handless air brushes me by, a breezeless breeze floats around, a still remembrance throbs delicately (like a spider heart a beat), nada movement, not a gesture physical.
for #5
prophesies turned true
pictures, car rides desperate,
questioning a bath
for #2
beginnings, firsts or
necessaries, changes up
to nevers again
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
mwyn, or melodious
morllyn, or lagoon
moment, or moment
monllyd, or sulky
môr, or sea
mynydd, or mountain
atgof is memory
.............................................
diffeithwch is a desert
