but I swear that if you anchor your wrist
to my roots
you will still clutch the heartbeat
of a thousand cemetery steps
your hands unfold on the tender skin of my chest
in risk of threading the needle
to close to my heart
but the light that fell after
was chapter and verse all along
and with the night we taught ourselves to hunt
and harbor the slow drift of hurried hands

your hands have known too many passengers
held to many things
but you still bloom with ancient hieroglyphics
that light the now hours of this sunset veil
and I promise to always shelter you
from the train wrecks
and help you count the moments
that don’t leave bruises on your heart
and for the ones that do I swear
I will knit away at them to keep you protected
because flowers of war
are beautiful when grown together

I am only a tourist
in your collection of hearts.

the expiration date you put
on the shoreline of my heart
made me remember
how you got down on your knees
in the fire and
promised like clockwork
hanging loosly on your lips
something dying to love
but lying to protect
screaming whispers
to the versions of moments
that keep looking back
second chances
but there's to much smoke
and we're to broke to feel it

Shadows settle
along paved roads
and fences where the
sunset chased
reflections in rear view mirror
glances
between photographs
and moments

where
       the
          night
             begged
                itself
                  to
                    stay...
in some collective box that held
daylight down by your
childhood home
free
holding limbs and fractures
and each remark swallowed
in churning sound
lungs of light and darkness
chewing itself away
in the hours
gone
on the long drive
home.

You put the syllables
in your pocket,
exposed to the sky
choked in blood and salt
and I knew you had me
wrapped in blankets of
paint
even though

you ran out a long time ago.
Even though, you have done
this a million times.
Even then,
you manage to
keep the flame
blue.

[ Thank You ]

I can't put  my finger on the trigger
of what drives my soul
to shoot fire upon
the cracks of your back
where lies have been told,
and puppies lay when
there is no one else to
curl up to.

This is a war
with paintbrushes and ink
swelled up against your wrist
like the tide crash of a
thousand acidic water droplets.
consonants strangle vowels
falling from the accident
that left your mouth
beat up with words and whispers
and things no one
ever wants to listen to.

I hear them.

These are just labels
that don't need definition
just all the same subject
that gets caught between
the questions you ask and the
answers I can't seem to find.

But,
I know we plan on being peaceful
and the hours between us
isn't absence.
I'm fully awake,
at the sound of your voice
and days from now
we will listen to what
we say in places of importance
and light will shine
down the river of your arms again
and tomorrow, will  be  better
than the ones before yesterday.

The fire will paint itself,
the bandages will
be the canvas.

A thousand ships
sailed like
the day you carved
my breath out
from the inside.

Curtains etch light
against unfinished
cracked walls
calm wind
laid across
abandoned bodies

Words worn like
garments around our
wrists in chords, you
gently raking stars
from my eyes.