A Fine Mess.

A tent of cavernous proportions
covering a heart with a perpetual greed.
Furthermore,
I sit here with bones twisted beneath my body
and rip these salty oceans from the wells behind
eyelashes and fingertip-stoppers.
Damp and dewy as we are discovered upon rescue
to have fought the good fight.
Nevertheless,
I find little comfort in knowing that you were watching
with your eyes like black wet ink on letters soaked in rain
and ears, the most peculiar shape of deceit.
Lips curling around words to be spoken
as syllables pound from behind the thick doors of your teeth.
Whitewashed and oozing forgotten lore of apple core evenings
under blankets of rusted tin and rotting flesh.
It is nothing more, nothing less than your arms entwined
in my greatest fears.
Keep me safe, love me. From seventy-nine years
and miles. Without touching, without words of promise.
If these lips could speak and echo through this cavern--
so audacious in their indignation--
Choking and sputtering, they would shape
and pale pink muscles behind the perfect pout
would push them triumphantly toward the light.
However,
If these lips could speak easy
a hand might forget the rush of paper and keys
and stains of black beneath fingertips,
And I await your rebuttal. A written utterance of the heart
or some other empty space in the cage of your chest.
The crescendo in your song
a finale; Encore! Encore!
As the paint washes away under greasy elbows
and tired shoulders
heave and crumble.
Oh, you've really done it this time.
A fine mess you've caused, Darling.
The most beautiful,
yet.