sometimes i
ache
for the darkness,
turn my eyes
before the ocean of his
mouth
has d(r)ied
on my
lips,
remember
distinctly
the thick taste
of charcoal sucked
through the brown
slatted shades
that hid sunshine
from the secrets
inside.
there are scalpel-
scars still on
flushed flesh,
mirror-marks
of time that
doesn’t pass,
connective tissue
knotted into daisy-
chains of white tomorrows:
where waters whisper
of salt and rust,
there is yet
frost
to come.
i accustom
myself
to the sound
of endings, learn
to hold my hands
close(d). sleep
is the natural
consequence
of over-
dreaming,
an exhaustive
star-eyed
lumbering
collapse. sometimes
i think i
think too much.
