Sweet Recovery

I fell ill inside those eyes of breathing blue iris, died,
then came back a silent film
about the birth of daisies and the waning tide.

It was not the hue nor a lens askew
that plunged me beyond all black, into the void.
Your slivered tissue did me in—scars archived in your retinas.
Your innocent optic nerve had pulled me back.

Though my projector runs again,
my blueberry ears are still cold with death—
but your strawberry tongue, I know, will toast all lingering rime.
Your molten nectar will flow over arctic anvil and icy hammer,
which will sculpt that heat and fire—
cling, cling, craft your white-hot soundtrack to my reel.
Then petal, water, sand will be something more
than the grains in poor Edgar’s hand—
for he stands lost and faded on his surf-tormented shore.

First, a toxin must be rid.
Your ripped and tattered lips—
taking bruised and swollen sips—
turn kiss and journal sick.
You are naked, golden, broken on a stony coral bed.

I stand nearby, stepping closer with time, to wrap silk around your skin.
Rubbing cuts and cracks with therapeutic wax,
I’ll massage your worries away—
fill your head with laughter, fill your heart with song.

No more sugar-coated mirrors for some sweet-toothed peace of mind.
No more fending demons with a rubber shield and plastic knife.
No more signals failing in the bar-less cell phone line.
No more bets on red or black—flip your own coin, save a dime—
for you’ll have no more quivering chin, unless it quivers next to mine.

Then I’ll cradle you, my babe, replace cigs with craving kisses.
As your warm whispers fill my ears,
I’ll prologue our grand premiere with a tale
about a girl I once saw playing on the beach:

No matter the castle built, a villain surfaced from beneath.
And as she raked with desperate hands, the villain kicked and let her bleed.
And when she restored the fallen sand, the cycle would repeat.
Though blood incessantly filled her moat, she never won nor claimed defeat.

As she was tortured, I was tortured.

I bled hysterical laughter, wrenched to unhook my neck,
wailed for it all to stop as every ailing breath
heaved my spine in half and left my ribs a busted mess.
Then a castle crushed inside my skull—
and absolutely killed me.

And back I came—back you brought me—a silent film
about the birth of daisies and the waning tide.