poetry makes nothing happen

It is morning in this burned body. I set the walls on fire half a day ago but they continue to remake themselves while I sleep.  This body is resurrection, no paradise This body is phoenix, ashes of its predecessors This body won't die

Last night I repeated that I loved you while you had a panic attack in my arms. You cried into my chest and I could only repeat "I’m here, I love you" until I felt you breathe again.

I mistook you for someone else just as you mistook me for Her; bent at all the right angles our silhouettes moved in just the same way.

Fingers curl around your shirt, dig into your back, assure me that you are not an illusion.  As I twist myself into abstraction you give me shape, but you don’t know how I am supposed to look.

I wanted to tell you that I’m no longer afraid of the movement of your chest; Rises and falls repetitive whispers of the fragile work of veins that promise to keep you alive But I still hold my breath between every heartbeat

Look alive. You are a woman. You are still searching for your own body. You are a canvas to the boy who will tell you he falls in love with broken things. You are braille to the man whose hands will trace you as if you hold simpler lines beneath your skin. I am seeing less and less of you.

I dreamt of disintegration. I dreamt of a body dissolved into salt water. I dreamt of becoming the sea. You say I have such an expressive face and I wonder if you could see the ocean when I pulled away from you.