He ghosts through apartments long after three in the morning
Tracking in the residue of his night time wanderings through dreams
Curtains lift in the wake of his storm and rest on bare shoulders,
Life signs;
The figments and fragments of a hurricane he breathes.
Through open windows he leans, his soul reaching surface
Drawing moonlight into his skin, illuminating the ice he carries,
A chest cavity full of crystals and rainbow light
Breathing in shades of heated silver.
He has found a place for his bones to lie down and sleep, wrapped up tight
Spiders web to sew together and daisy chains round veins
His limbs - will become trees
I stand below, blinking upwards as he takes root and grows,
Resting burdens in the air
I - am a foolish, fragile spine and wake when he does
Passing time, holding up more than is my own as I try
To take him from himself,
Even if I’m buckling beneath these unspoken
I have watched him appear, as a flower
Hiding secrets amongst himself and blooming long enough
In Spring, baring bones
To prove he is more beautiful than this drained, scar-riddled skin
These, he says, are his strength, and that the skeleton forcing outwards
Is the truth. For when we die, and lie buried
We will have his face
Setting fire to his insides for fun he catches his tears in hands
Allowing wounds to grow, and through translucent skin
His screams show, throwing themselves against ribs
So as not to fly free of throat
He breathes in smoke, blackened lungs straining, dry
As he drowns in himself.
He leaves,
His shadow whispering across my skin as I watch, breathing silent as
His pleas.
I – am a foolish, fragile spine, trying to take him from himself
I – lie bent and broken, life passing and I remain on the roadside,
Safely tucked away.
I have travelled through my days as if they are
Losing themselves. Marvelling at what he has grown into as he
Reaches for the skies. I have walked trails instead of stretching,
Standing straight, growing tall as he
Try save him from
His – is a flower, grown and withered, seeping into earth
Six foot deep. His – is a tree among many, his years marked out
In rings. His – staying rooted and breathing life from life he does not feel and
I – am setting forest fires
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
He ghosts through apartments long after three in the morning
Tracking in the residue of his night time wanderings through dreams
Curtains lift in the wake of his storm and rest on bare shoulders,
Life signs;
The figments and fragments of a hurricane he breathes.
Through open windows he leans, his soul reaching surface
Drawing moonlight into his skin, illuminating the ice he carries,
A chest cavity full of crystals and rainbow light
Breathing in shades of heated silver.
He has found a place for his bones to lie down and sleep, wrapped up tight
Spiders web to sew together and daisy chains round veins
His limbs - will become trees
I stand below, blinking upwards as he takes root and grows,
Resting burdens in the air
I - am a foolish, fragile spine and wake when he does
Passing time, holding up more than is my own as I try
To take him from himself,
Even if I’m buckling beneath these unspoken
I have watched him appear, as a flower
Hiding secrets amongst himself and blooming long enough
In Spring, baring bones
To prove he is more beautiful than this drained, scar-riddled skin
These, he says, are his strength, and that the skeleton forcing outwards
Is the truth. For when we die, and lie buried
We will have his face
Setting fire to his insides for fun he catches his tears in hands
Allowing wounds to grow, and through translucent skin
His screams show, throwing themselves against ribs
So as not to fly free of throat
He breathes in smoke, blackened lungs straining, dry
As he drowns in himself.
He leaves,
His shadow whispering across my skin as I watch, breathing silent as
His pleas.
I – am a foolish, fragile spine, trying to take him from himself
I – lie bent and broken, life passing and I remain on the roadside,
Safely tucked away.
I have travelled through my days as if they are
Losing themselves. Marvelling at what he has grown into as he
Reaches for the skies. I have walked trails instead of stretching,
Standing straight, growing tall as he
Try save him from
His – is a flower, grown and withered, seeping into earth
Six foot deep. His – is a tree among many, his years marked out
In rings. His – staying rooted and breathing life from life he does not feel and
I – am setting forest fires