you were so percussive.


i zipped my coat and curled my hands in my pockets, nail to palm. swallowed. you had your index finger on my left screw and tightened my wing with a shree, shree.


“is that what you meant?”


you shrugged, passive as always. air thick with paint fumes. a delicate arch of feathers dripping octaves down my shoulder blades. your hand reflected in every plume.


i sipped the oil and wiped my mouth. polished eyebrows, noon-day luster. vague idealistic adequacy in the evening chill, cold so sodden it was almost black.


fly, baby, fly —

© 2015 peculiar