i paint our pasts with the bedroom light turned off,
the flickering ghosts of street lights,
tiptoeing their frail arms into cracked windows,
but we were never built to last,
our ankles were never meant to support us.
only these hands, holding my body underwater,
could truly save the meaning of us.
and at noon, while the ground was still moist,
and the trees were still swaying, i bundled up feathers,
from dead ravens, from dead doves, and tied them to my hairs,
shut my eyes, and let my soul wander,
to where I was a bird, and you were a worm,
where the earth was void of sin,
and nothing else nurtured me more than you.
to the open sky and the now toss of trees,
to a dimple in earth, and my pebbled feet,
to you, drowning in a puddle of last night's storm.
my hair is falling out, and the birds are begging for their feathers back.
my window is latched shut,
the rain continues to drum against it,
you are almost painted, you are almost painted
but i am still a part of the storm, my body lives unfinished.