Untitled Exercise of Procrastination

"You look so beautiful" they say, and their words are darting into me like serpent-tongues, or diamonds serating skin upon her fingers. In an arbor of golden palm-leaves, I learned to love the pink slivers of your tongue darting into me like a knife, and the blood was almost purple when it trickled down my thighs - the color of ripe figs, green seeds sweetly sucked between our teeth.

The trees are leave-less now. They shiver in the sun. I spin webs of glass around my fingers, trying not to flinch at the touch of handshakes. The murmuring creases of my dress remind me of winds in summer forests.

I walk into the cold night for a smoke and solitude, trying to ignore the shimmer of evergreens reflected upon marble statues that are lit by installations whose strangeness is called art. If I believed in love, maybe I would cry. Instead I bite my lip and take a long drag on the dwindling grey stub, watching its ashes pollute the sidewalk like a car.