we lay on the bristled hairs
of a field overflowing with drooping flowers
and the empty husks of rust-eaten steel.
between the gaps of our fingers is the sun.
between our ribs and spine, the moon.
heaven in our heads,
hell beneath our feet
we are overrun.
we're bursting and bruising and blushing
and bleeding and blooming
out here,
underneath a red-tinted sky.
laying to waste,
but still waiting, agonizingly slow,
for a rebirth
promised --
but when has swearing upon
a God only used for convenience
meant anything?
when have promises
meant anything?
we have finally let go of false idols
of our adolescence --
truth & justice & innocence
but in this interlude,
between life and death,
weeds grow between our thighs.
the heat strangles & straddles us,
runs through our hair plastered to
our face, brushes along our jaws
and outstretched necks.
our painted mouths press open,
shameless kisses to etched palms.
we think:
love is dead.
are we next?
we say:
love still has a chance.
we still have a chance.
we don't know if anyone hears us.
