Lauren Theresa

I Feel

In my heart

these landscapes 

are lovers

It’s Late.

There’s a square around the moon and the air smells like Christmas 1998—the aching of something dreaming into the sky. Reverberations emitting nothing but spaceships and late season chamomile bowing to cones; soft surrenders to gently lifting veils. Familiar episodes swallowed by the pulse of someone somewhere digging too deep into the night. Stars shifting shape to human craft, and nothing here is settled. Almost as if intentionally calling me back, reeling into the dream; the parallel unholy universes overlapping like cellophane. One final lily braving the frost, signaling tonight tonight, nothing’s as it seems.

Melting

I long to keep what’s sacred, staining diaries in shadows of magic ink. Because magic by crystal light or top hat dove is spelled the same. Because it’s impossible to know the difference between a fire and an alarm. Impossible to measure the weight of an insect with wings. Stepping out into unsettled warmth cocooning a landscape of snow, because the life here is impermanent. Nothing is keeping, like the memory of Batboy in trees. Like Disney’s cryogenically frozen head. Like facts landing softly, only disturbing the surface. The snow melts too quick to catch an imprint. Tomorrow this will all be gone.