part of blue

all of the cracks of winter curled upon themselves and made fingerprints on hands. the dry air was just that, dry. breath leaked from our open mouths and if anyone looked hard enough, they could make shapes of the whorls, the frost that came from lips and chapped the fuck out of what was made up of our skin. if they were imaginative and didnt temporize the moment (i saw a calico cat come out of katie's mouth) they would've seen, um, whiskey bottles, the necks of small women, the feet of children finished upsetting the mud. they would've seen children. yeah that's it. let's not make sense of what tomorrow and the love that might come. it's brooklyn, flatbush proper, where rich kids take their parent's money and fuck and drink and smoke and just get fucked up to the point where they might just come back to their flat and piss and moan while they're urinating in their hamper. into their unmentionables. did i mention that this person i'm talking about it is a woman and she's shaking knees and quivering and upsetting the qualified norms by pissing in HER hamper by standing on a stepping stool? the acceptions we make for girls (ha, see there i'm supposed to say something there that makes some sort of contrivance of what a girl is or isn't supposed to do).
jack held amy hard, fucking broke her wrists. almost constricting her nerves, definately breaking the capilaries on her metatarsals. bruises. brused. broken? no.
he lost one wife. a long time ago, so what does that matter.