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| pict by Little Nymph |
counting one to twenty six, I missed five to ten
barking like a dog
shouting like a starving to death kitten
too free
to remember, the golden
ages
looking
at my finger toe, bad and big
I saw it’s already tired clamped by my old-fashioned shoe
feeling
my heart beats slowly
too tired
for running, the
blackest years
bean
sand and wind in my skirt
told me to reopen an old book
without
tearing or hiding certain pages
the
sound of sea became soundtrack to our acts
my
new beginning
follow
me, while there still muscles
