I promise you,
this chest cracks
from the force of my gasp
scrabbling every ounce of
frigid mist I can
warming it with time,
face turned black from pressure.
wait for the release, darling.
it may not thaw
the distance between poles
but I can whistle something sweet
just like you taught me
when the summer was a running river
and our hearts
were not these
frostbitten bird wings
strung out across the dunes
I burnt my harmonica
in the coals you left me
it could not play the blues
we are grey
with nothing between the static
a monochromatic flicker
on long-dead television sets
shattered-glass hope breath
sputtered out in the slip-shape of smoke
my wrists are broken
from digging you out of yourself
so
let’s take a minute to mourn.
let’s see if I can hold the soft silence
on my sharpened shoulders
and keep it from breaking
bring out your paints.
show me how the only thing I couldn't see
was your brushstroke
your choke-face
your pathways
your patched-up heart strings
those holy rolling white things,
I would give my backbone
for another look at your insides.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
I promise you,
this chest cracks
from the force of my gasp
scrabbling every ounce of
frigid mist I can
warming it with time,
face turned black from pressure.
wait for the release, darling.
it may not thaw
the distance between poles
but I can whistle something sweet
just like you taught me
when the summer was a running river
and our hearts
were not these
frostbitten bird wings
strung out across the dunes
I burnt my harmonica
in the coals you left me
it could not play the blues
we are grey
with nothing between the static
a monochromatic flicker
on long-dead television sets
shattered-glass hope breath
sputtered out in the slip-shape of smoke
my wrists are broken
from digging you out of yourself
so
let’s take a minute to mourn.
let’s see if I can hold the soft silence
on my sharpened shoulders
and keep it from breaking
bring out your paints.
show me how the only thing I couldn't see
was your brushstroke
your choke-face
your pathways
your patched-up heart strings
those holy rolling white things,
I would give my backbone
for another look at your insides.
