the need to store away
as if for a rainy day
in the dark recesses
of the matter, grey;
seems lost, replaced
by toys
 
but the water that flows
bites my molecules
as it soaks, shakes, stirs
my insides, the abyssal plains
 
of my secret garden
irrigated by the dishwater
from my soul kitchen, where
seedlings burst into lush cover
 
where the jpegs and the mpegs
are no match, for the vivid
red, green, and blue
that bloom, within.
 
the scar on a brow,
the smell of your clothes
keep floating on,
in the water, like strands
from a desiccated bark
of a tree, long gone.