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My hands migrate from your neck,
across your chest, down your back, over your hips, along your thighs, and I can't help but contemplate how you contain so much wonder in such a tiny space. I could spend days counting freckles, tracing collarbones, stroking curls, outlining shoulder blades, caressing cheeks, and I don't think I could ever find an appropriate place to lay down my hands and stop touching you.
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Small flashes of violence,
your lips stained violet kissed silence onto porcelain. Below wrinkled cheeks your chin keeps time with your speaking but I'm thinking more about how your grin hides teeth that have ripped through skin onto bone - and had I known beforehand, I'd've taken precautions. Often lost in the way your fingers lingered over my spine and divided my halves into yours and mine. Chapped lips and bony hips crashing like a wave sinking ships and thinking this is what it feels like when guilt trips over his own feet. Two particles meet. Metaphorically dismembered, you'd never remember to put me back in the order I was stored in, only pour me back down the drain, again. Prisoner in daisy chains, though the days changed I stayed rooting deeper in your garden, guarded by lost souls hiding behind the holes in your story. I've wasted time filling these spaces and placing back stories to nameless faces, and bracing for the impact of you cracking under pressure. Hesitating when unfamiliar hands began tracing rough plans along my waist where dust and dirt had settled. I traded these things for guitar sting callous, not as bad as what they'd have thought - I still got chills up my spine with blistered fingers running over skin that's been trying to hide for so long that it forgot that getting caught up and tangled in someone could mean a good thing. What heavy eyelids failed to see -
skies erased by a thousand bird wings fighting for first chance Alaska though not for lack of trying. Throw them out to sea.,
forget them, baby. They can't speak. They can't breathe. Don't plea with me. No apologies. No apologies. No apologies. Here, it's easy the way they do on tv. Listen baby, carefully: no one's free. No one's free. No one is free. No apologies. I have so many
holes that no matter how hard I try to stay full, I just can't quite manage - not without losing bits & pieces of my self. there was composure
somewhere in between charmer's almanac and basset sounds but i drowned it with coffee grinds and gas pedals Your heart was deciduous -
just when it looked like you were golden, you flashed red before my eyes and left me alone, freezing. Every year your love for me grows until I lose you to the cold. I still think
that the ugliest part of you is my reflection in your eyes. I have seen your spirit asphyxiate you in fits of rage;
watched you breathe new meaning through old lungs. You're not done with breaking - not content to lose yourself in this wilderness or fall victim to ancestral traps. Instead, you fill yourself with stories and let them split open your sides, they spill out through your fingertips. You roll personalities over your teeth and experiment with tastes. There's no definition of "home" here, though you've mapped these characters and converged their fault lines with your own arteries. Their cold eyes pierce through mineral and wood, raw and carved by prairie winter frost. Inhale tobacco, exhale life: shaman of an unknown nation in an abandoned land, you touch life in these faces and channel their ghosts. Take advice from the whiskeyjacks, dear, and keep your rabbit's foot for luck. Walls aren't crumbling here, nor sidewalks.
Only my body onto bedsheets while sparrows cry elegies during summer's funeral procession. Though I find some thing's sacred about Canadian northern lights, I can't help but think of the land of the glass pinecones and the sound of your voice, an accent I still can't place. |
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