there was just the smallest purple shell in dali’s gravel, in exactly the shape of a heart torn in half.
and you’re sitting there in the reflection of a hundred mirrored windows and for a second you think the sky’s about to fall, but its just the trees raining petals that collect on your shoulders and the crevice of your collarbone. lights are winding up their trunks but you can hardly see them in the washout from the sun. flowers pour out of the walls, and you’re looking for the maze. one way in and one way out but you just cant seem to find it. a lizard devours a beetle and a blurry second later that same beetle is climbing up your leg, flirting with the hem of your dress.
and he’s in there, somewhere, always at your back. the sea and dali are your lovers now and there’s one on either side.
stand still, baby, no one wants to see you crying.