Dusk blisters with images of you
hanging open like wormed apples.
Somewhere, as the darkness dilates,
someone shrugging on my body
blinks through each picture. I plant a fist
in this thought and keep moving.
Lately, a simple memory dresses itself in
collisions. I fumble for your palms; they drape
over a clothesline, unraveling at warp speed.
Bump. An arm attaches. Bump. Now, two arms.
Bump.
This is a feeble attempt at adornment, I think.
The fist flowers.
hanging open like wormed apples.
Somewhere, as the darkness dilates,
someone shrugging on my body
blinks through each picture. I plant a fist
in this thought and keep moving.
Lately, a simple memory dresses itself in
collisions. I fumble for your palms; they drape
over a clothesline, unraveling at warp speed.
Bump. An arm attaches. Bump. Now, two arms.
Bump.
This is a feeble attempt at adornment, I think.
The fist flowers.
Alexa Theofanidis is a writer based in Houston, Texas. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Birdcoat Quarterly, Rising Phoenix Review, The Scribe Review, and elsewhere. Currently, she reads poetry for COUNTERCLOCK Journal. Instagram: @alexa.theofanidis.