"i hear in my mind all of these voices

and it breaks my heart."


the morning air
slides through
small openings in windows
bearing stories
caught loosely
between the strands
of her unkempt hair.

how else does one wear such honesty?

her perfection lies
in awakening
dream-intoxicated bodies
and reminding their
ill-maintained minds
which images
were a result of
random neurons firing,
and which were from
the recollections
of verbal irreverence
of times before.