Blue little veins
dance along wrists
and crowd hands like traffic on busy streets,
and I think about your voice
when you’ve just pooled into sleep
and I realize it’s a bit like
the flowing of blood that never stops.
“have I ever told you,” you’d whisper
before dipping your head into sleep like black paint
and I never did get to hear
what never did leave your lips
but still aches within me
like sizzling coal.
the streets are thread
I am trying to sew back together
with stop sings and green lights turning my fingers numb
because I can still feel the poison of your voice in my
blue little veins