fleurishes: “In other languages, you are beautiful—mort, muerto—I wish I spoke moon, I wish the...

fleurishes:

“In other languages, you are beautiful—mort, muerto—I wish I spoke moon, I wish the bottom of the ocean were sitting in that chair playing cards and noticing how famous you are on my cell phone—picture of your eyes guarding your nose and the fire you set by walking, picture of dawn getting up early to enthrall your skin—what I hate about stars is they’re not those candles that make a joke of cake, that you blow on and they die and come back, and you you’re not those candles either, how often I realize I’m not breathing, to be like you or just afraid to move at all, a lung or finger, is it time already for inventory, a mountain, I have three of those, a bag of hair, box of ashes, if you were a cigarette I’d be cancer, if you were a leaf, you were a leaf, every leaf, as far as this tree can say.”

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Bob Hicok, “Elegy Owed” (via pigmenting)