the grey hills, the red hills
I found a telephone. Between the grey hills and the red hills. It was an old telephone. With a cord. The cord was plugged into a dying liver. The liver was dying in a mound of daisies and daffodils. Things with the least color stand out the most. Anyway, the cord was plugged into the liver. And I called you. From between the grey hills and the red hills. This is my secret station. My forgotten outpost. I like to talk to you. Our whispers tangling in the static. And the wind blowing in between the grey hills and the red hills. I talk to you when the sun is going down. The sun going down like a dying liver. Or a hospital patient succumbing to her evening dose of morphine. I don't even know what we say. My brain is an astronaut. And red wine is outter space. Why is there so much distance between me and those I feel close to? Just know that you are not completely alone. On these evenings of wind and static. I reach for you. From between the grey hills and the red hills.