Tell me about the hill where we placed our white bones,
where we piled them up, in hopes to reach the wounded sky,
the toss of dead eyes, staring, dreaming, wishing.

Tell me about the knuckles that built rocks,
And your body, crumpled over mine like old newspaper,
like the lilies that stopped meaning anything to you,
like the lilies you tossed out in the wind the day before.

It’s raining over that ashened hill,
but our bones will not melt,

our bones will
not
melt -

but why?

tell me about midnight whispers and my legs,
held open by your hands,
tell me about the absent sun and the dead air that stopped breathing
once
you
did,

because I have forgotten if rain tastes sweet,
all I remember is bitter on my tongue and salt in my lungs,
when that same rain
swept
you

a w a y.

you always told me winter burns red,
I didn’t get that until now.