You put the syllables
in your pocket,
exposed to the sky
choked in blood and salt
and I knew you had me
wrapped in blankets of
paint
even though

you ran out a long time ago.
Even though, you have done
this a million times.
Even then,
you manage to
keep the flame
blue.

[ Thank You ]

I can't put  my finger on the trigger
of what drives my soul
to shoot fire upon
the cracks of your back
where lies have been told,
and puppies lay when
there is no one else to
curl up to.

This is a war
with paintbrushes and ink
swelled up against your wrist
like the tide crash of a
thousand acidic water droplets.
consonants strangle vowels
falling from the accident
that left your mouth
beat up with words and whispers
and things no one
ever wants to listen to.

I hear them.

These are just labels
that don't need definition
just all the same subject
that gets caught between
the questions you ask and the
answers I can't seem to find.

But,
I know we plan on being peaceful
and the hours between us
isn't absence.
I'm fully awake,
at the sound of your voice
and days from now
we will listen to what
we say in places of importance
and light will shine
down the river of your arms again
and tomorrow, will  be  better
than the ones before yesterday.

The fire will paint itself,
the bandages will
be the canvas.