I held your hands in mine and felt them bleeding.
You said you’d been digging graves.
It explained the dirt under your nails but
not the dust in your eyes,
somehow clouded by the devil we despise.
I asked if he told you to dig these holes,
too small for a child,
too large for our souls.
You simply mixed the blood and the earth and
out of the dirt made a home for us both.
You said we could live till we needed to die,
and the graves would comfort our homelessness fine.
You said we could die till we needed to sleep,
weary from tears shed while we can’t sleep.

And in this home,
accidentally us
could fine the right stumbles and maybe once touch
before we’re buried again in the dead of the earth,
where we are each other,
married in birth.