Dove Poison

Time has changed, time has changed. There is no other way I can put it. I wear dysphoria as a crown, and no matter how much unutterable necromancy I use to try and create vistas of the meridian, I always fall back down from the bubblegum clouds, reaching out for you. My sentences are never fully complete, melodies that won't leave my head, leaving me breathless on the seabed, sulking. The things I have done can't be reversed. They've swallowed me like time and the universe, like the blue day's lullaby. It almost feels unfair, we are known for sex and war, for the rings on our fingers, when we are changing time. I will save you a seat here in my world of tangled neap tides.

The morning is softer than silk and the warm air hosts an aromatic smell as if it's a garden of flowers in a tropico paradise. I weaved my ode to a nightingale in dreams of poetry. Pigeon milk is regurgitated into the young bird in the same way I regurgitate words and put them neatly into rhymes, into new personalities, into oneric states where my mind is trapped and neon lights flash. It's the way it's meant to be, the loving duty of the keen sailor in lilac shades, taking coral reefs and giving them to horses. I wear my body weight in regrets, wanting change. Each cycle of the sun is a stone of tomorrow, my eyes following the stars of the night. Change is a thing I have always postponed, but something I've always wanted to taste. Change is a thing that compels me in every way, but change is a desire which intimidates me, a song I dream of, for reasons which beat like a heart.