pastura

i n . h e r . d w e l l i n g

There are no rules which state you must get over her. You are free to dangle in the l.o.n.g c.o.i.l.s of her hair, to wind her locks around your limbs and elevate yourself like an aerialist from the appalling MOB below. You may weep *saline tears* into her cup when she has turned her back and press dewy palms to her back when she has (emptied) her cup. You may breathe poetry onto her mirrors when her shower fills with steam. You may press {thirsty lips} to the drops which cling to her reflection. You are free to rend the -stems-of-flowers- in anger and spill the water from their vase, and you may blaze in her bedroom with the incandescense of a midnight sun. But you must remember, though she haunts your mind like a ...tactile...dream...,
she has gotten over you like the living mow over the
________
dead.



this is something i wrote at work today. unfortunately, it was quite colorful and had some neat special effects which don't translate too well here, but i thought i'd share anyway since you all are so encouraging and creative. now i think i'm going to work on some photo self-portraits... sg, here i come!