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He couldn't care less about her adoration for philosophy; the way the word 'existentialism' rolled off her tongue and gave her nostalgia, how solipsism infuriated her, the way she became fascinated with hail that broke glass. In fact, he despised how she remembered every bone in the human body and how she compared them to other things: "The pelvic girdle is just misshapen wings and the carpals are like tiny stones you find on beaches." What he loved was the way her eyes stole his essence, how his skin would be gnawed on by shivers and tingling, how she'd masticate potassium and roll her tongue when she ingested vitamin c. Quite f

Memories are fragile glass flowers. The ones I kept in the vase with Old water just to make them feel Alive You, the very definite reason those flowers Still remain my coffin for regret and sadness. Glass petals cold to the touch. Hit the ground, They'll break into slivers and tiny prisms that Cause blood to flow. Like you, When you told me I was a shame to be loathed That my depression was unbecoming. You couldn't handle Me. Yet, Love smeared me on your lips every so often. Regret wrenched eagerly at my heart, pulsing to it's last deep Breath, I stare those poor glass flowers down to remember how Little I tried to keep you. T

And there were no kites tickling the sky or curiously moulded children dipping toes into the lake's breasted width feeding abandoned swans, paddling with dads. And I forgot my picnic basket again and to tie my hair in a sugar bun in order to intrigue the bumblebees. I stroked the grass in false appreciation of life as now. Smelt the temperature of kisses, blew the drift of ripples that sang higher and flatter than my own whistles at the forgetful park gardener who littered as he picked and fiddled, with his tidy belt. Flowers were proud and wouldn't stop telling me about the curse of being beautiful. 'I don't