They say
"the tongue, it tastes the best"
so I cut off half and 
gave it to the ocean. 

The bone spirits have taken an interest in you. In the morning you wake up heavy, their skeletons not quite aligned with yours - fragments of gossamer down in your hair, spurs against your collarbone they have found a home in you laid down anchor made of bird bone and your grandmother’s white hair and em dashes

love, it’s 2099, you know that now love means stretching wide as a redwood, linking roots at the planet’s core and sharing memories and cat gifs like water, means drinking stories at a trinary star sunrise and dancing beyond the possibility of burial, but you’ve always had a taste for the old fashioned.

Time is, according to her bio, 
apparently asexual, lives 300,000 
miles away, is the second best 
mtg player in the world, and im not 
even a ripe plum, just an angry 
persimmon nothing wandering 
the aisles of joes abode like i would
rather be at costco instead.

A wish: for this story to be more unique,
to burn to nothingness more elegantly, though
even that wish is inelegant,