poetry will never be an elixir
plumbed from salt licks,
magical with eau de vie--
--you will never breathe again,
no matter how much my words pray you alive.
ink pulses in my foot
and you are still here,
when you watch with my eyes
your heart beats in the star around my neck,
you have never left me--
one night i cried myself awake
and my blanket sang me to sleep,
i never knew chopin wrote words
but they were your words and you were alive
in my synapses in my
subconscious
in that flash second where heaven touches earth
and the sun disappears into tidal destruction
and you breathe the world,
in,
out.
Author notes
it's 4 in the morning and i've had half a bottle of wine
...i don't know what this is, just missing...
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