Malapropisms of a mottled mind
Your back twists black shapes
against the russet sun-streaked sky,
revealing a canvas of scrapes
that explains that look in your eye.
Memories wash past
and neurons fire
signaling the time we last
spoke to inquire.
I hope you know it like I do
Because time can only so much
to my heart’s crew
before I lose touch of you.
(via stuckinthedoldrums)