honey & homesickness

edges

You are a cataclysm within my skull,
A lucid forget-me-not at war
With the wintery crucifixion in my bones,
On feathered wings, tethered, tethered,
Weathered and sun-bleached.
My paper breastbone, torn at the edges,
Your wordless love letter, worn at the edges,
We are chaotic daydreams
Written in damaged, bandaged language,
And my skeleton, my skeleton, a martyr—
It'll wither and wilt, decay in the dirt,
But our hands will remember each other,
And our hands will still be here,
And our hands, and our hands.