Ways to Fall Apart

We are there,
skipping rocks
in the ocean,
two, three skips tops,
cutting the surf
before it dives
and we find another to
throw.

One.
A nervous laugh—
quick glance and
something,
I don’t know.
Not even something.
Nothing.

Two.
Hands like shoestrings,
tied, tangled, and bowed.
Smiling and sunburnt,
peeling skin,
two clumsy
souls
hugging the curb and
prudently burning
distance on a couch.

Three.
A loosened grip,
shy knuckles and
the cold hope for
more.
We are on the corner of
Gower and Eleanor
falling apart.
It’s there,
the first taste of salt
on wind
before a wave
cuffs.

Sinking now,
and there I lie.
Muddy and fixed,
torn from the dusk and
muted by water—
a dull stone on the
ocean floor.

G. Mitchell Layton is a writer and touring musician living in Los Angeles. His works have been published in Pif Magazine, HM Magazine, Catholic Digest, Surviving the Golden Age, Glassworks, and others. In his spare time, Mitchell likes painting, watching Twin Peaks, and fending off bouts of existential crises.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Ways to Fall Apart

  1. abykittiwakewrites says:

    Absolutely sublime!

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