Pursed lips french exhale into the coldness of late January
On the inhale I can taste your cemetery shadows
The rich, bitter heat of your stalwart heart
Thumping to the tune of midnight
I want to draw on your edges with salt and whiskey
Make it burn, make it hurt
Let it really sink in how far away our fingertips have become
Am I still she?
Is this still me?
Looking for answers under the bird feeder
All I find are empty shells

A tangled mess
Sucker punched by my own blow hard suckers
Each scrape a deep wound full of poison and rapture
If I could but belt out this volcano of regret that burns deep
Perhaps I could take just one solitary breath that did not taste of you
That wasn't a constant reminder of
What. Could. Be.
Sea witch hair scattered every which where
Like seaweed jamming traffic along the ragged edge of reef
Is there a volunteer?
Someone willing to rehinge this off-the-rails oddity
That is and is not before you
A dead sea of guilty shade
Heavily armored
With fathomless depths of rage and remorse