Still, you are a muted morning
cradled like a mango—yet
to yellow—in the basket
of my ribcage. May your tongue
have no take from
these tomorrows that taste
of teeth. Dawn where the red ash
stings, fetch your face
from the flames;
if you are fleshed with mine,
flay it off—slowly
you would bleed your own
light. If the night
strips itself of its black dress
and hangs it on your heart,
do not be afraid
to wear it. & When
the weight of your warmth
brings the dust hard on
your knees, kiss
me back, & heal,
rise still.
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 10:19 AM UTC
Still, you are a muted morning
cradled like a mango—yet
to yellow—in the basket
of my ribcage. May your tongue
have no take from
these tomorrows that taste
of teeth. Dawn where the red ash
stings, fetch your face
from the flames;
if you are fleshed with mine,
flay it off—slowly
you would bleed your own
light. If the night
strips itself of its black dress
and hangs it on your heart,
do not be afraid
to wear it. & When
the weight of your warmth
brings the dust hard on
your knees, kiss
me back, & heal,
rise still.