It Is You.

It is you.
I heard a whisper.

Inertia so precious,
escaping down the lips
of our crucified fixations.

brushstrokes of
cran..berry nails
pressed to the vines
of Mona Lisa’s smile.

She is
weaved within the pulse
of an alpine’s mind.

A taste.

As the ignition
sways along the
slow motion of urban hips.

concrete canvas
laying finger-tips
against the twilight of a tranquil sky.

You paint my memory in tainted pearls.

As if I can tenderly caress
our part in a lonely moon
with the moist traces of my merciless tongue.

I beg you…
borrow a piece of my broken bones.

And sew
my pupils under
the fanning of burnt lashes.

they will blister purity into the salt of our wounds

Tweezing pain
within the veins of our violence.
We shall thread his name between our spines...
 
an echo of a whimper...frost-bitten in the shame of our final goodbye.