Layla

Things seem muffled:

A frustrated softness.

And kind of blurry?

I don't know.

Anyways, there's dirt in the creases of my hands

and it's stuck there. 

I can hear it in there with my hands 

pressed over my ears like this. 

Everything is loud 

and strangled sounding.

My eyelashes are dripping with salt.

Burning my lips and

betraying my tongue,

so desperately expecting sugar. 

A common mistake. 

And my fingertips are shattered.

Beautiful.

Like the broken, empty bottles outside of the bar

in the morning. 

There's a word for that:

Something so beautiful, tragic, and 

ordinary. 

Author's Note

Anything you have to say is great!!

Reviews

[M.E.Lyle]

What an odd piece of work. I don't understand it...but you do. I'm afraid my perceptiveness fails me here.