My rib cage, more like a fishbowl
filled with a cool liquid;
not Memorial-Day-at-the-pool,
like ice for that first jump. Nor desert-walking come-to-Jesus
life-saving nectar. More like jello cubes, perhaps.
they rolled
down my arms and
pooled at my fingertips.
My eyes
closed to cyan skies,
opened to walls made indigo by the
trespassing glow of a city before dusk.
This is what music tastes like.
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