six chamber revolver,
spinning, spinning,
each shining metal bullet
like raindrops against the roof.

each glance, each touch,
each conversation turned to rust.
our almost could have been,
lost to cherished anecdotes.

four chamber heart,
pumping, pumping,
red blue blood flowing
like fog over the hills.

we ran around, laughing,
breath opaque under streetlights,
iron fences, concrete, brick,
frontiers beneath our steps.

before i could speak,
my grandmother whispered,
the truths of the universe:

candy colored secrets,
silver lockets and smooth stones,
bitter paradoxes unspooled.

her fingertips carving
forgotten histories and
butterfly shapes in the clouds.

but dried flowers stole it all,
crumbled, fragile petals
displaced in my throat.

be patient.
at the ending,
there is a treasure,
that will make it worth it.
hush now and you’ll see,
it’s always been,

Heading to my sister’s place to dog sit,
I’ve got a crockpot in my duffel bag.
It’s been at my place for months, unused,
now it’s wrapped up in my clothes.

Jury duty, back aches,
hot potato maybe plans,
this weekend I’ll meet strangers,
and build a better world.

Outsider watching,
scavenger waiting,
enjoying the secondhand heat,
of a night of passion.

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2016-12-08)

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