vincent cried at the sight of the moon, and generations later,
his soft sorrow keeps me up at night. eighties city pop
snarls between sunken alleyways
the claustrophobia of being alive stuffed into untethered skins
seared into the back seat, braised glory,
little aloof girl is collecting vials of tears
stuffing calcium into moulds of loneliness;
did i tell you about torn ears? how they
track blood on the porch? how they tune themselves
to clair de lune? how, like a fracture, they
dance an ache-strung jig when sunlight ebbs
into starry nights?
he and i dream of many things
but mostly, we dream of wrenched yellow from the wounds
of a hollow belly
the taste of a lamppost drenched in ash,
the slow burn of intimacy, ice blue, winter,
the endlessness of knowing so little,
for a sleep that knits itself ridden with holes.
there is no snow in parched mouths
only shattered voids disheartening kintsugi.
everything is a nightmare,
rustic bone scraping chipped paint until fingernail
i am cold flesh, first hint of madness, cavernous space
between breathing, surviving
so enamored with the eternal love of living inside your head.
numbness copulates with grief
and somehow, the world ends.
if you live long enough, even the sting of sanitizer in a freshly sliced finger feels intoxicating.