i cling from the lip of sunshine,
my knees on rainfall rainbow taut
with arrows of pine needled pain.
i have been waiting for you
to come through the door,
your hands clutching my remains
within the urn of your heart.
the char singes the air and
the birds are wet with tears.
who knows the name for grief
under the burial mound of the tongue?
i wander into your arm again & again
like a missile guided by the cold shudder
of your bones rattling in their own skin cage.
what is to become of us now,
that we have parted like hair down the middle,
a road from nape to scalp to fore,
too many kisses on one mouth.
you stand by the window,
a frame covered in prayers,
a smoke curling languid like old sex
from your lips to the hungry curtain.
your hand is paused at mid touch
of the sky's lower hunches,
blood red sun bleeding
the leftovers of noon down
the highlights of your hair.
i want to touch you.
i want to be the thing you see
down that lonely forked road
& when the bell rings and
you rise like a thousand years old shipwreck,
i can do nothing but weep into the concrete
where your heart used to be,
where my tomb now settles
like a dying animal
into the earth of your body.
馃摳: pixabay
Yours always,
Osahon (Warpedpoetic)
