and here,
your fingers pressed into my arm
(warm and soft and slightly sticky)
I feel weightless, falling,
wind tearing me to feathers so I may
catch flight-
sunlight presses, here,
on my throat, the rivulets on my palms-
this is fear, yes,
but this is exploding into starlight,
feeling the salt of your tears
crack your face
(breath life back into the ocean,
dip your bones in, now, raw and
deep ache of feeling, falling, failing, fearing)
I tremble inside-out,
count the seconds as they tumble into
wingspans, breaths the length of mountains
(I tear myself away,
tuck me against myself,
roll these heartbeats against my tongue,
my teeth)
still; my breathing storms,
this lightning cleaving me
into two.
here, I am dust.
YOU ARE READING
Words Of A Cloud
PoetryA book of poetry, amongst other things. "of these things I am grateful: these hands of mine, that fold into stars at night to take and burn and illuminate these books that turn into secrets at four a.m., and when I press my fingers close I can feel...
