Old and timewrinkled.
Thoughts ripened,
fall from me.  

You lean
on my vocabulary,
I felt your initials

carved on my fragile skin.

Torn syllables
scatter.  The floor is
bone and blood.

It rearranges and
once shapes are
spill
into a forgotten

well.

Syllables on a clean
tile. ,
writhe.

Caroline Shank
10.3.2023