How I feel, it's a sin, longing to be
something I've lost again. I can't find your
eyes in the crowd, yet the burn of your hands
still lingers on mine as our fingers reach out
across a breath of wind, desperate, calling
through the abyss, calling to be heard.
Blundering and old, I have begun to
long for you in that ancient, harmonious
way, mouth wide open, feet swinging
high above the ground. In between wisps of
dreams, I feel your hands in my hair telling
me all the secrets of the world, dark eyes
shining through the confusion. You
unravel me and leave me glowing on
the horizon, my body turned to ice
under invisible hands. Your trickling
words weigh me down, stick to my skin like tar
and feathers, itching. In silence, I can
taste the ghost of you on my tongue, honeycomb
bursting between my fingers. You crumble
before me, sugar on my limbs, but I
can't get the bitter taste out of my mouth.
I feel you echoing over my skin
and, for a moment, the warm of your breath
blazes on my lips. And then we fade,
dissipate, cold hands grasping at the sheets,
whimpers bouncing over the grey waves.