Full Flower Moon
two full moons in may
I want to spill needfully on you, like the light you seek. Match blown out. Winter moons are made of stone. The flower moon is real. It’s my prerogative to dream so much, May makes two of them. Woe to the vampire tenderness no one understands. Woe to the silent takeover of narcotic summer. Alcoholic raindrops in shrouds, nervous, in the garden of sacrificial tulips. Ornamental paper drinks the light I lose. Correspond with me, dense in all the lives, in all the letters, covered in moans, in full view of Mays flowers, slip the reminiscent wind.
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thank you Stacey! your analysis always gets to the heart.
i love how your writing never asks to be understood plainly. it feels lived in instead of explained. every image in this feels fevered and beautiful, like longing trying to survive its own excess.