Jordhyn

Mysteries unfold it seems, Like images or sounds on spools. I am learning all I can from you, All I can without you closer to. So all the things I can't say, quite, I steal from others, piece by piece, Put together by an old tape-recorder. Just as I fit in the last song, And I am popping it out, To scratch 'l'amore' in the plastic.... It gets all intertwinded, And my fingers are shaking And I rip the film. Just like that. All the words I had to say, About your ghost-won't-go-away, Are useless and valueless On my bedroom floor. And I remember, How it seems Your existence is not tangible. And I am stuck in love, Just the

Driving under the stars, In my broken little car... I had a dream about you. (Which is wreckless, I know). I drove by the houses, Built in angles and rows, The skeletons of what will one day be, The places people will actually live. I saw us laying, In the sawdust on the floors. Looking up through the rafters, At constelations and airplane lights (disguised as stars). You were silent and still. I was breathing sort of loud. Your hands traveled as they pleased, One rose and fell in it's place above my belly button. You didn't go home. We never went home. And they decided to leave the house as it was, For us to live forever i

Henry Thomas was his name. His once tall body had bent and stiffened from years of slicing a mop through the grunge and filth of the yellowing linoleum floor. A once proud man, all dignity had faded from his features to be replaced by the angrily carved wrinkles of experience, and frustration. His eyes were twin, hazelnut pools of apathy, his nose a bulbous tapestry to drink. He was bald. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones too defined. A prominent Adam's apple jutted from his skinny neck, which appeared far too thin to support his head. He was skinny, and the navy-blue janitor jumpsuit hung on him like the shroud of a corpse. His body bent ov