on breezeless, cold-kissed nights,
where my finger spun into your hair,
where i tried to create webs around the bony joints,
you lay motionless,
underneath a halcyon sun,
trying to gather warmth,
trying to gather something more than my hands could give.

you spoke tender,
voice breakable,
and i didn’t speak at all.

on charcoal painted streets,
where the yellow matched the gold in your eyes,
where trees lay dead lost things on the side,
where your eyes wandered to them
like an adrift soul,
in desire of being rediscovered.

you picked wilted flowers,
And gone gilt grass.
I ached for you to pick me, instead.

you crept along side me like a shadow,
blind to my wanting eyes,
my settled smile.

the rain didn’t fix us,
the sun didn’t mend you,
the perished daisies just served to your broken hand like a band-aid.

But it was always more than I could give you.

It was always more than my battered self could offer.