she's seeing (as in seeing- and feeling and

knowing)

the world as a supposed rotation

of fragments, insignificant to

the precise moment the earth had

stopped and her head began

-spinning- around.

She sees it all in inverted colors and

things only right-side-up

in backwards mirrors, and

the most important creations are

the plastic (beautifully superficial) dolls

in the clothes she'd never wear and

the pieces missing from her (his)

love notes

-the words between the lines-,

the way the ocean will apologize and then it's only...

-

his scent as her lips are buried in his neck,

while she tries to seduce him slowly,

((though he rushes everything and

they're moving so fast))

It's only in the end she feels so gloriously novel,

like a wonderful, candy wrapped piece

of overrated t.r.a.s.h.

-

and all of this scattered absurdity

-

crashes down

-

for him.