When I disappear

Blame it on bad timing. Go ahead, just say the clock was in the wrong place at the wrong time and nothing could be salvaged. I won't be angry. Yeah, I might be offended, but I'll laugh. The hands froze in the heat and sweat in the cold; nothing was right. Nope, nothing. Butterflies sing in the haze of green smoke and fly past the blood-red gum drops that fall so eloquently. Slant and slope straight down like a sledding hill into the black hole that smells like sweet grass. Picket fences with old bubble gum anchored on by persistent, lazy hands. Warm and moist weather makes rain trickle down spines and soaks through fabrics. Fire. Cut. Blame. Collarbone. But not before the balls that children kick around are stolen. We like tears. We like disappointment. Heat. Rain. Wound. Lungs. Pools with clothes equals pools with no fear. Only fun and giggles. Take apart the pocket watch and see springs. Warm, blooming, luscious. Heart. Flowers of red dance inside like they're outward and they're fragile. Sustain life; get pricked on your favorite finger. Blood. Bruises. Fire. Heat. Blame. Stomach. No one likes that. It's embarassing.Fidget for the lightswitch, damnit. Faster. Slower. Softer. Harder. The time isn't right. The farm stands sell sugar-coated apples and blood flavored lollipops. Swallowed. Enjoyed. Spit. Hip. Planes fly overhead with their clear wings and land steadily on hips. Red grips. Red marks. Blue bruises. Green eyes. Knee. Tyrants can't escape now. Nope, the timing was bad, they missed it. Clocks deflated and fell gently. Clocks were drowned in red and green and passed away on the minute. Not at this time. Over again. Do it again. Lips. Eyes. Hands. No, foot. Trickle slowly and dance in mirrors. Kick the ball back to picket fences and children are happy. A little girl with bouncy curls smiles and picket fences break in pieces. Ambitions. Handwriting. Kickball. Lust. Inhibitions. Tyrant. Don't stop. Stop. Don't stop. Just stop. The timing is right now, don't stop. Oh, but you should stop.