Small Thoughts

Ah, it was not a diamond 
ring. In your palm was sitting 
a god, watching you disintegrate. 

Your hands, tell the 
agony of lifting darkness, when 
the full moon was rising. 

The author speaks. 
Not the ink, about the nomadic words 
which have come to bleed on paper. 

Tortured leaves of― 
autumn are gathering to celebrate, 
this side of the fall. 

Like attaining the liberation 
of sea urchins, reaching 
the table to sip water. 

There was no saliva.