Velvet

Face in the sand and I keep wondering what sort of corpse I’ll leave behind. Aged and worn, with colors and scars and indentations and asymmetry. Soft palms. The kind you’d feel gently rousing you from a nap in the sun. Velvet. That word won’t leave my head. Crushed velvet. Worn velvet. The sound it makes when it rubs against itself.

Written August 8 2018. Honeymoon Island State Park. 

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