if i ran out of paper,
i'd write it in my skin
longevity and scars,
the permanence every writer
yearns for:
poets in the bible
kerouacs killer
eli wiesels memoir.
we are all tragedy and cosmetics
painted with gold-leaf
and grey smoke. we will
never go home.
caught within our own
rain shadows, we pull each
other under.
white little shoulders
like snowcapped peaks
sip the strange face of the earth, and
you move my breath in small
shudders, the clicks
of a heavy film camera.
tonight feels like a broken bone,
sharp gasps of breath burning into
the ghosts i chase, the specter of
your body still on my skin.
you learn the shape of my
spine. twisted before bed,
the lights were black
& the air churned like a
seasick stomach. the violent
clashes of skin and bones
cease in pidgin english, tongues
unknown and alien from
our lips—
i waited for you.
