My shoulders have grown weary under your enormous
gravity.
Like the sick summer nights in your breath,
I have congealed on the foyer,
unable, unwilling to draw myself up.
Night falls and all the things that have been hiding in me come out,
and I feel your curving absence
and I am alone,
some place far away where the memory of your voice still echoes,
a moth against a lantern in my throat.
I feel you moving in the stillness of sleep,
in that place between dream and death
where your breath still lingers
like spiders under my skin.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
My shoulders have grown weary under your enormous
gravity.
Like the sick summer nights in your breath,
I have congealed on the foyer,
unable, unwilling to draw myself up.
Night falls and all the things that have been hiding in me come out,
and I feel your curving absence
and I am alone,
some place far away where the memory of your voice still echoes,
a moth against a lantern in my throat.
I feel you moving in the stillness of sleep,
in that place between dream and death
where your breath still lingers
like spiders under my skin.
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