An atmosphere resides north of your brow, where thoughts percolate and drip-drop into constellations. You connect the dots over time, take a mental snapshot of its location. Searching for an answer you travel south of your sharp clavicle and listen to the morse code beating from your chest. The sync is perfection. You feel murky south of the beat in the depths of unmarked territory. Misdiagnosed as the stomach, not quite certain where the X falls on the map but here is where the butterflies live. And as they flutter and fizz, the atmosphere takes notice. Adapts to your circuitry and makes a decision that lines up in your throat, protected by your teeth.
Pour with discretion.
Pour with discretion.
No comments:
Post a Comment