Wrinkly patterns we had for dinner

Patterns, in the battered soles of my footsteps, sprinkled at random through the stars, these curtains. But I thought curtains billowed, at their own pleasure. Who choreographed its dance to the breeze? We stretch the patterns, with a crushing rolling pin, checker our dirty blouses, to ensure they know no end. 

We shield ourselves from the rain in the misunderstanding hail, but you drown. I leave you lying there still, in that bucket of fur. 

You suffocated in that white sea, because I’d trimmed the dog’s coat unevenly. I seduced you with untuned folk songs, from a place too distant it blinded you. My patchy t-shirt without lines that ran from A to B, lines you couldn’t trace with an index finger absentmindedly. 

I like getting presents and sometimes I just admire them for a while. Sometimes I wait for them to ripen. You skinned someone alive, and pressed each sheet into this notebook for me. Until the sunlight with lethargic grace bronzes the pages. Until the lines scrunch and scrawl up, so my thoughts can ride a rollercoaster. 

Now your skin is wrinkly, like a prune, my unmade bed and every line I like to finger, sipping on the unevenness and crossing the crevassed hills. Unevenness had you for dinner and saves your ears for breakfast. 

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