Speaking your name
through parted lips comes
like whispering bodies in the breeze.
In your absence I feel you
in the spiny veins of my eyelids
in the calluses of my heel.
We communicate in white noise
transcribing our transgressions
in forceful staccato breaths.
I’m writing you a letter with clove smoke
and air, exhaling with urgency
from my lungs to yours.
I carve faith into my tongue at night
with a broken bottle cleansed by a flame.
I watch the pill bug on the cooling stone
hearth for some sign of how to react.
The posies’ stems are flaccid
but the narrow cobalt vase
sustains the illusion of strength.
The air we breathe is too important
to be so little of us.
I’m sewing wordy mantras
into the wound in my side trying
like hell to keep myself together.
My pupils swell to take in these final
flecks of calming light. I am, at last,
plucking lashes from my eyes
and blowing them out to sea.
When I miss you most I throw
my jar of ants out the window
and force gravity to prove itself once more.