(harvested from my heart)

12:24 a.m. --old friend
Well, if it isn't the moon herself
"Hello Icarus,"
You came home
"Black holes aren't homes."
Yet you were raised here, my dear
"How could I forget?"

1:05 a.m. --past lover
And how is she now?
"Who?"
That wolf girl you adored
"Smoking on other stars."
Stars?
"Planets as well,"
Does she fancy other moons?
"She fancies all celestial things."
Surely that is not the case-
"Her songs ate silence long ago."
What?
"Her wolfsong for me is but
loose ashes and
an epitaph now."

2:42 a.m. --current lover
Was the revolution delicious?
"Like a glass of unborn names,"
That many?
"The light spared no one."
No one at all?
"All perished under his gaze."
But you fell in love with him, didn't you?
"Yes."
Why?
"Simple;
I am a chaser of the light."

3:17 a.m. --state of mind
Why are you here?
"I spent all my faith up."
And you think you'll find more here?
"No."
Then why-
"The gates summoned me."
That is suicide, my dear
"I imagine it more like--
salvation in disguise."

4:08 a.m. ---medicine
Too many ghosts are glued to your spine
"I can't shake them."
You can shed them into poems
"They'll just turn into puppets."
But you will be their puppet master
"You expect me to play god?"
I expect you to rule over this wreckage,
like you used to

5:32 a.m. --homeward bound
Have you missed me over the years?
"Only in blinks."
Why's that I wonder?
"The moon sleepwalks across the sky."
So, are you going back now?
"Depends,"
On?
"If the night has eaten my name,
and craves these ruins again."

<>
'cause this is how he loves me

i.
when
emptiness hangs like a moon in my mouth-
he kisses the stain of night
from my palms;
and turns it
into
a
pulse.

ii.
he reminds me that our love-
is the constant tag of
"drowning sun and flowering moon"
between opposite horizons;
and that the sky will always be
our stage.

iii.
his heartbeat is the closest thing
to what the universe sounds like;
and he blinks and says instead:
"my love, my one and only,
you always will be
my beautiful infinity"

iv.
when i am nothing but
the color of mirrors-
or a broken chaser
of the light-
he finds a way to worship
even the coldest silhouettes of myself
like one would of art.

v.
i am a mural of a target-
i am constantly flirting with death-
yet he has been feasted on by bullets
because he refuses to let
shadows make a meal
of my soul.

vi.
he has defied every walking god
in his path to prove that nothing,
and i mean no existing thing-
can place a dent in our love.

vii.
the thing about the sun is that
he loves nothing more
than when i paint his bedroom ceiling
with our future.

viii.
And when death stands
on the tip of my tongue-
and the nightmares cup my cheek
in the flesh of my own kingdom (the night)
...
he holds me close;
until all the wars within my bones
turn to honey.