Writing Prompt #134 “Collage 11″ and Wordle #86

Collage 11

Loving her is a kind of madness,

She keeps spiders instead of parakeets,

Each with a fine rainbow hat

And a smattering of ambivalent eyes.

In her pockets she shelters chameleons

Smaller than thumb prints,

In glaring Mediterranean palettes.

The sun emerges

Behind a clutch

Of gesticulating cypress

Ruffled by the musings

Of a lapis lazuli wind

My heart only a stone’s throw

From where she stoops

Gathering flowers

In bushels and wreathes.

She is not the coffin

I envisioned when I first crawled inside,

Ringside and hypothetical

I lap the serum from her hands,

Thus condemning myself

To a life free of obsolescence,

A life steeped in wine and ink.

When I’m waist deep in brimstone,

Sucking mawkwish fumes from a banded straw

I like to envision her in a red dress

Her hair toppling in acrobatic curls

Lit only by poignant stems of moonlight.

I sift through her books

Her diaries, the little drawer

Where she keeps tube after tube

Of pumice green mascara.

She is my enabler, my strength

The object of all my obscure attachments.

Her body strays

In a bed with too many layers.

I drink her, breath by breath

Until there’s no air between us.

Week 86