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@anoxfordscribbler
I, awake. I, in fits. I,
breathing in the breaking of this
moment; bruise born out of
loving like a war - his hands, his hands
again looming and I, lamb. I,
inviting. I, close to the impact and knowing
that this symphony of bone is just
overture; is the curtain, is the way we
play our parts and so I, willing, take
your bloodied fists and kiss my blood from it.
I, on puppet string - take you to the bathroom
to wash the evidence; to drown myself
and I, turning away. Turning towards.
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There is only this peace lodged in the witching hours - the window cold enough to leave its mark on your skin and finally, finally you can breathe again; forgetting the span of his hands encircling the sharp jut of your hip. The two day stubble scouring your neck. The scent of old cigarettes, of mint, of cheap cologne. The way your name sounded dead on his tongue and so you transform; become Scheherezade. Tell him stories with your body if only to keep yourself present and remembered.
Here, last vestige of tobacco. Perching in window sill and desperate for the air. Here, burnt out candle, lingering scent of black cherry - sweet, heavy. A hand resting carefully at my throat. Here, here, the empty cologne - ghost of you carried through the dust.
And oh, to take back the moment; to remove the words spoken from the vault of this mouth and burn them for heat. To kiss them into the earth, with a little rain of us and burst through the skin of it with new growth. But here we are, in the weeds instead and watching them choke what could have been out of your throat as you turn towards the door.
The body awake, electric. Body restless in Opacity of night. Body buzzing so loud one Could break apart into Apidae, into a cloud of possibilities. The eyes grow agitated, aching to close - paupers praying for rest but the body as God does not hear them.Â
It stays frantic, bright and unwelcome in this bed. Beside the self there is the temptation of sleep but here, within - a bloom of tulips in the sun.
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In a season of endings, the leaves of us shed themselves onto the winds. Which is to say; I measured the distance of how far you kissed from my lips - statement of intent long before the words coalesced in your throat.
And then, what music it was. What song! The way it faded into the night like a stranger tripping through their graces, leaving no peace of themselves. Which is to say; even this, the years wasted, come to nothing but smoke.
Midnight
For a moment, breath of fluorescence in the periphery; you emerge through the mist.
Unlit cigarette dangling from your lips as you brush past me; fingers dragging furrows
along sweat-streaked arm. Your turn back as if I'm Eurydice and oh, the way I follow now;
out into the winter of it all - cold and keen, desperate for warmth you've lost.
Spark of flame as you press me back into shadows, seeking entry and I, willing
open for you. Breathe in your smoke.
Car Crash
-and right here, there is no way to make this entertainment. No way to peel back the veneer of a dream and not find it wanting. There is only this; a menagerie grinding beneath a car tyre. The loose gravel. The tiny bones. The hollow leaf fallen away and we are down here with them, inhaling before its embrace.
There's a part of you that must wonder; must break itself on the rocks of a "What If?" for the sake of breaking. A part that plays the last time we kissed and question whether it was known then - whether that was the sealing of the tomb we believed to be a life, intertwined.
A part, at least, that longs to bite again at the fruit of these lips; taste the pomegranate on the tongue and slip away from Eden again only to have it turn to ashes as you wake to only the whispers fading into the dark.
In dreams, we become a crimson shift turning to my own music; become the dress we dreamed of wearing freed of trepidations.
I see the reflection but see only stranger; see them sweep arranged ringlets back from bare shoulder.
And see them dance - this sweetest song; mimic their movement and breathe in their voice, my own.
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And oh, to move in sacred rooms,
in these cathedrals of our own.
Learn to kneel; to give offering
with the the tongue - treat him as
altar, as leader, as glory
and exult oh, exult your name
in the moment you christen this
disciple; rosary splayed
about this collar. Keep the prayer
of this frisson locked beneath
aspirant tongue, eager
to be whispered into the night.
I bring offering to the altar as it burns - a ring, a cracked photo frame, a litany of apologies. Fire is the only thing with an appetite for memories. Silver sliver resting in my palm as I hesitate - last vestige of hesitation struggling to breathe through the smoke. The scale of this hand tilts towards, verdict given as the softening metal sinks towards fate. I breathe out your name; I give the last of us as an effigy.
I watch him move
Through a bar and
dreamed of having the
willow grace; to pass
as a breeze. To
be so fey is to be
remebered as smoke;
no one sure if you were
the cloud or the
murmuration bursting
from the eaves
but still in reach, still
tilting off the edge of
a shot glass and
down again
becoming moonlight
and passing through
a canvas of so many
stars looking to touch;
to become.
First Crush
Out in the clearing we danced in white clothes that gather green at their hems as we turn through circles of bullgrass and daisy til we fall back and then everything is sky. Sweetness of your laughter is the sun. An errant finger tracing the length of a forearm; frisson, summer. A deep breath before turning to count the freckles across the bridge of your nose. I kiss each one, reverent. Your name; hymn, prayer. Fingers encircle wrist to bind closer and in this - we begin.
A Note On Leaving
The wishbone snap of car door
slamming; you left in February snows
With the lion's share and here,
in the amethyst dark - I, unmoored.
I, clinging to the smaller piece.
Who could imagine such fragile bones?
Who could imagine the break so clean?
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December
We cut our names into the frost as if we belonged with winter; as if we could enshrine our clasped hands with ice. The night chill desperate to push us closer as we meander down street aglow with amber light. You brandish mistletoe as a weapon and lean in with mischief, knowing and I, I so eager to taste December on your lips respond. Take the sharpness of mulled wine for a gift you impart before flying up the steps to your house, leaving the diminishing warmth of your hand in mine.
Salt
And the wound needs it, not the hand that throws it but the sting itself. The antiseptic fact of it. How the burn of it is in itself a curing; which is to say this scar borne is a weathering of days. Which is to say we make mortar out of the mocking to reinforce the will. Taste it the way time tastes its victory. The boldness of the self, brought to its surface; a little knowing smile blossoming in ruined earth.