All These Innocents

Every Little

Fun World

Here is my blank. It smells of wide white. I have been so many. I am alive, alone, etc. I allow for the opening and it keeps not. Space on the page and rent of time on earth. Then should we be two or very many? Every something in the grey of this. Weight of the whole void. These innocent catastrophes. Surviving this will take my death. Sun shows up with some new flower I eat or turn into. Bright red happens and a party rushes in, just to light it up and laugh its name. Each other to hold. And in tremolo sunset, I open. Reveal tiny turtle shell or quiet black marble eye.