Jeremiah 44 (Free-writing)

The words stick in his skin, like shards of glass:
broken letters stream through his lips,
punctuation marks dot his hair,
knotted around his neck like a noose,
as he struggles against the weight of phrases
that bear thousands of years behind them:

Why must paper burn like kisses?

The flames lick the pages
like thirsty gazelles - they look so dainty,
their little horns bent towards the water,
like your mouth, winding its way around my neck,
like a noose, and I am weighed down
by the words you could not say:

Good-bye.

One word, when hyphenated, or more of a phrase, really,
with horns sharper than shards of glass,
and I wish/do not wish that I could see myself reflected
in the mirror embedded in your skin,
but Sartre said it's hell to see yourself through others eyes,
and he's French, so he must be right?

But must is the name of a fish, over-salted and served with lemon:
I am jealous of that fish, because it feels your lips  against its skin,
your bites against its thighs - wait a minute, do fish have thighs?

Do their fins give them sexual pleasure, when they make love beneath the waves?

Google tells me that fish do not make love. They reproduce through external fertilization. Quite a boring life, really. Next, Yahoo will tell me that birds don't cry, that dragons never existed, and Pluto's not a planet.

But I would rather live in my world of illusions. It's so cozy here, beneath the purple blanket, and I grow wings when I close my eyes. In the land of dreams, unweighted by letters, I learn to fly.