A cure to a question
which way do I turn I do not know this place I have no direction
two AM
I caught the attention of pedestrians and firemen because
I was swearing in the streets due to a fleeting aggravation
that drove me
nearly
senseless
Praying on my knees to a god I scarcely even believe in
to expose this unknown disease which gave
you every reason to be un
comfortable


But you never complained, except
when we were awake in the break of the night and your moans matured to that of a dog’s deep howl and I
had nothing more to do than to hold your skin tight as if it were to fall off of your bones within minutes


and your chilled limbs would diminish to
nothing more than a stone in the ground that I would visit every week or so and
leave flowers for your soul to smell


I will thread my dress from scratch with a spool of black stars and a new silver needle
The bottom will drag across the dead dirt because I made it too long for my petite body,
on purpose
so no one could gaze upon my swollen bare feet bruised from suede heels that squeezed my toes for too long when I dressed up for you in front of the dusty mirror on Wednesday’s dawn


My lips will curve words like bubbles blown from a child’s toy
do I look okay?
The left fragile strap slips off my shoulder as a breeze steals the right and a breath sighing yes trickles chills south on the ship of my spine


I will be wearing a whopping gray floppy hat,
the one with the violet sashay you gave me in the spring
It will fold over my quiet face and
cloak the wounds of my hazel flaw