The mind, a dormant stone

Always.

Once upon a time,I lost my love to suicide. On his way from this world, he made a point to stop by my window, 27 stories hoisted He shook me by the shoulders telling me not to worry. He said that he was free, at peace; He always wanted to be part of a world where artists could roam free, a streak of beauty whipping around the air, Molecules reforming around his ghostly shape, transparency reflecting what I wanted to see. I remember the first nights I spent alone, in my own house, Room candles flickering, higher and higher, crackling like a campfire on my bedside. Myra held me, feared the sounds I would interpret, disguises in the shadows. His face The night after, a Thursday, pulled me out of a 3 o'clock slumber Edging for familiar A voicetuggingatmyhair "Jessica, where am I?" "Justin, you died." You ended it all When you were alone Eyes wide Fingers determined Rolling a checklist for suicide. How'd you think I would understand it? Lo...

You either make your own world, or lie in a bed in theirs. ~that's me.

Beautiful poised lips hold steady my heart in the still of his smoke   Thudding in terror, a fright of smile. ~ Jessica M. Wilson

My hand traces the sky with diamond libido in my penniless pocket.  ~Jessica M. Wilson visit my twitter: www.twitter.com/europawynd

...That's what I get when too many mouths hear too many calls and my car butts in [like usual] and takes me out of town to see what other people my age are doing when their moon shines, dirtied with stars, and sweat hits their brows under all the passions of the sky. Provoking, as i rub salts into my thighs bleed another lullaby while i'm holding hands -- myself -- under myself -- rocking rubbing until persuasion pulls my attention towards more hands new mouths, to jump aerobics with, lunging dollars forward burning fuels without backup, just desire -- a libertine wet distracted to see what flexibility my body holds, a living.

Sex turning around thighs, grabbing at need that devours. Fluids dissolve into each other; grabbing at hairs and dust, nestled into cracks of skin. I roll on my carpet, playing by hand, whisper into the pores, "i wish you were here. i wish you were mine." Does anyone really hear wet, parted lips speak? No one's knocking. I've spent years for someone to come inside. ~Jessica M. Wilson