bindings.
I’m still tied in your old knots.
All of you. All of your ties.
Soft velvet cracked old leather.
{ they chafe just the same }
Ghost bindings made of words
and indifference. Young mouths
with mature plans young hands
building sandcastles in folded time.
I am bound to old concrete
shadows of form, drained by ghost
teeth and old mouths
dripping red promises.
Always sweet tongued
until the bleeding starts.
leviathan.
The color of your shoulders became a kaleidoscope of dragon’s breath, a leviathan through my hermitage. I never knew if your laughter started as a lazy smile swimming over your face, or if it bubbled up like sea foam. If you moved through the world as a stormy ocean or a lapping wave. If your hands were as rough as sand, or as smooth as your poetry. You were always the fairy tale ending that my arms could never hold as you coiled and twisted like envy through my heart. Exploded through my chest like a held breath, as I drowned in a whirlpool of your words. Words you took away, leaving a thousand tiny cuts as seconds of silence. You were always my fairy tale ending until I disappeared into your mouth, consumed by loneliness. The damned on the very edge of judgement. Shivering, waiting for just one more word – absolution
pink threads.
Did raindrops land like heartbeats when they ran for the fields, when night came for them? Did raindrops land like scars on the arms of refugees? They didn't know that orange could be a sky or a fruit or an escape from the wind in her hair as she ran from the storm reaching into her chest, pulling out a thread of pink hope worn to frayed patchwork. They didn't know fire could be a place to sleep rather than a place to burn for secret pink threads.
layout by Crochet the Leper | 2009