theoretical layersand the snowflakes that hide behind our eyes,
as we compress them to close, melting around our hearts,
dampening a too exciting feeling, falling on a cedar tree
from whence we fell, laughing, and I think perhaps
a one-sided heart cracks its own eggs open.
The stones themselves enunciate their praise,
and all, we, tremble to bear upon their steadfastness,
a chivalrous guard against a whiling wind, dead
in a despairing song, tumultuous and contrary
to our living claims, and it is as silent as its name.
I concern over the state of our campfire
as you feed it your life, as it hungers all the while,
as we thirst all the more for the rain to quench
our dirty throats, as we only feel its warmth
as it only takes our own.
and these snowflakes that rest beneath our eyes,
frostily gathered in the corpse of a gaze, understanding
the overstatement of a name that fits as many feet with gloves;
those were the acts that play in the mind's eye,
and quintessential to the tongue, perhaps.
none more exper
leaving, and leftshe likes it when he marvels at her paper-thin birdcage bones,
and when his fingertips take their gentle evening stroll
along the scenic ridges of her spine.
she likes those winding paths of whisper-tingles left behind,
and travels them to find him when he's gone.
she doesn't like it when he laces up his shoes too late at night,
and takes away his fingertips and his crinkly-eyed smile;
but never her pale bony skin, or her.
she doesn't like those hollow little shiver-chills left behind,
mapped across her empty ribs and lonely spine.