He Won't Write It

"I am a golden god"
The sound of thought
the sound of water dripping into a bottomless well, chasing after something already gone deep into the ocean waves, making friends with the salt and starfish

Your fingers shaped like shark teeth, grabbing at anything. Anything with a speckle of blood on mahogany floor padding, digging imprints to have a droplet for your yourself; pretending it's false and acclaiming true nature at the exact same moment.

Scrabble jabble Hello walks among the pristine steel cabinets, mothers mop up dusty hangnails of dead five-year-olds. Their toddlers fell from a plane, landing upon shafts of hate and greed. Hello says the newscaster, your life has now ended, how do we feel?

Tight maternity jeans suffer from too many folded napkins and straw salutes.

Their indifference gallops upon your strings, pulling the lungs down to gravel levels--your choking, drowning, chasing after that pebble in the ocean. One for one.

Foamy whispers and black coffee sea breeze mornings. Faded lined chairs, uncomfortable is the hotel's terry cloth towel. How many people have used them? Cautious hands change outcomes...purple reflects desert, deserted ambitions.