tiptoeing past the mossy graves you told me all the reasons
why this dewy day was lost in translation and how glass
was made by fusing sand
but thats never going to be tangible
unless that cigarette drag is smoother
and the billowing smoke stings my eyes
making them water and i will cry out for some
anonymous object to come and sanctify my chipping flesh
but your glare when you speak excavates the dirt
that permeates in the mausoleums in my heart
catacombs that hold all the secrets