Giftwrapped in belly flop

Ritualistic
the mood of my thought
so similar to my sleepsignals before coffee.

The very cloak of quiet
wrapped around my face

my smile the only glimmer of sun
in a partly cloudy morning

my words clipped like my nails
and folded in my lap.

The pending transaction I have with the sky

should crack me open like honeydew,
the moment feasting upon me like a hungry animal

but you won’t find in me a single tear
not a glimmer of tremor
or a hiccup of “nope”.

This day was always inevitable
the eve of my sure enough to encourage

and urge me straight to the lip of “jump”.

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Talk at me while I eat

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