Teach me to flay this skin --
to strip it away.
To strip it all 'til all that remains
is an ornate foreign origin story
stowed in an impossibly tall tower
buried brick-before-brick between lines left
dressed in dust, overlooked by
well-read-over-thought eyes
rushing through a sadly-ever-after true story
that somewhat resembles what I think
a song should look like.

But I was never good at music.
I was never good at music
the way you were good at falling in love.
Now harsh tones come screaming
from my cell phone to wake me from
memory disguised as dream
where your voice strummed
telephone lines like guitar strings
singing softly that you love me
because of  the way my arms were carved
from crescent moons
as if, for no other purpose,
than cradling the curves of you.

So when did your shape change?
Was it a shift in your spine
or did meteorites ravage your resting place?
I think maybe this skin is in the way,
like a one night stand wardrobe
begging to be flayed --
to be born again by serrated hymn;
a sung sermon in the name
Of some razor-edged savior.
So strip it away, because beneath it,
I swear to God, I feel the same.
Can't you see that
these crescent cradles never changed?