The Moon combover


we sat down
two subtle oceans
salt eating away the table
in her hair lives the Moon
primordial
silver-spoken
she hides it beautifully
acquainted with the right combing technique
(where does one even learn the Moon combover?)
with nothing to cloak
my bare ocean
I turn into poppy seeds
so her eyes don't swallow me
with nowhere to conceal
her naked ocean
she turns into thin air and seagulls
as to remain immaculately untouched
at times
she brushes against me
almost unintentionally
and I no longer wait for her
to rid me of my weary existence
my body of water turns willingly
into teeth
esophagus
and I make myself disappear

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem