I
If you hear the rain's footstep on
the cobbles, polishing the asphalt
to night sky shine, where—not near
me I'm sure—you lie tossed in a
corner like a rumpled blanket, your
fingers wandering across the dream
of your face, plucking blackheads &
pimples from their trees, do you
feel me swinging from the warm
branches of your lungs, lips sewn
shut with horror, teeth shattered
against each other, fingers clawing
the noose for blessed air? Do you
wonder where I am? Do you caress
each frame of my entry & exit, the
eating of your sweetest parts
melting on my tongue like ice cream?
Do you wish me well?
Image credit:Pixabay
II
I saw you the other day, just before
Christmas, pushing the road before
you, your fingers tight around your
destination. There was a boy with
you; a man, I mean to say. I
apologise. Is he your lover now?
Does his lips touch the places my
lips annexed years before? Does he
know scars lie buried in those
places like the way a stream leaves
ripples on the sand it leaves
behind? Does he mind? Or maybe he is
a friend, walking your shadow, in
your leash, in your damn leash
encircled in your finger.
III
I should have called you, peel your
face from under my gaze, that weary
sigh escaping your lips as if you
have waited for too long. I should
have stopped to see if there was
laughter in your eyes but what do I
care, the sun heats everything here
& this place is no sweeter than
hell's fevered pain. What if you
carried your anger & had become
blunt? What if your body had become
to heavy a sea to carry the country
of your hunger? I did not come with
respite, I carry my own beautiful
angels on my throat. To revisit that
tattered piece of land where we
collided, embattled, scarred, would
be to reopen scabs & this time they
may not heal.
Yours always,
Osahon(warpedpoetic)