Deep green under the yarn of your skin where veins splinter up;
bones taste like lace when you realize

the milk of human madness feasts within you like a lingering whisper –
something you speak with the shrink of your voice,

a word to name an object,
an object to be destroyed.

I've forgotten what minimal looks like,
too busy acquiring, cajoling,

interacting with the fragile spaces between your fingers
where the skin webs slightly.

Hungry for amnesia and unimpressed by the weight of time
as it overlaps across her face like overgrown bangs.

The deep green, unseen, steadfast to her nostril,
a thick stench in the air, and eyeball inside a windowpane,

newly fallen trees, the ice storm where we repositioned our lives
in front of a fireplace and agonized over silence and

overanalyzed ourselves as vessels of overused millenniums
and learned to turn ourselves off,

just off,
never on,

just off.

The cheek stretches across a palm,
a finger itches an eye,

we forget,
the deep green fades into the spectrum of forgetfulness.

She grazes across the mansion slowly,
no kill insight.