its a cigarette singeing the fingertips
sirens crying to a deaf ear
a hammer smashed against necrotic flesh

can’t you feel that?


                                                      you are a wind that rails against the moon:
                                                                                    thousands of miles away
                                                                  she cannot hear and cannot feel you
                                                                                she can see but never touch

                                                    how do i feel after so much disaster?
                                                                         what world could we have?
                                                                                              what could we be?


old callouses thicken and spread
but the blood inside is dead
and the feeling fades
pressing again draws no special ache

bruises blooming like
lies from your lips like
nightshade in the dark

tell me the truth that i might feel the wind
the burn, the pain, the blood.
chip off the callouses and expose my skin
melt my heart to feel your infirmity

                                                    or else entomb me in the stone
                                                                                            of my own making.