It's hard to tell. Halfway across the sky along analog interjections I caught one of your feathers. You were lonely, but charred, and you inspired me. I kept this delicious rip in my stomach. What are you?
It's a wider shade of blue than I expected. It is scraping at my door, smooth grit and fog, suddenly there and shifting and we can change so fast, one day soothing strings nude under the stars and the next raising cattle in Montana. There are so many yous in you but they all produce meaning. Even your name - an archangel - did you know? This one I haven't run into yet. Perhaps in strife.
There are curtains and shadows and stand-ins and we each know what is expected but have forgotten the steps. Amongst empty beer bottles and video game controllers we may dream up new ones. Soar above the city, I want to show you the skyline, dive right inside it, into the belly of this roaring, speeding beast. I don't know if you'll want to follow.
Montbeillard
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Une histoire parue dans le deuxième numéro de la revue Colère.
A story written for the second issue of Colère.
6 years ago