I don’t know when the rains started to bleed.
A taste of salty pining, a dash of
Peppered moments and memories, dancing together
Their bodies, clasped, loosening, melting, blurring.
I don’t know when my clay hands composed you,
Mold after mold, structure, shape, dimension
Nestled in the embrace of these coiled fingers,
Your cinnamon breath, blowing its fragments,
Mingling with my own, tearing me open,
The gash of my wounds, alive, and trembling still.
I don’t know when the smell of long lost love
Stark dead, ghost-white, wafts along
The interstate where the night reveals
And sea winds soar and sing, the smell
Of burnt lips entwined, slicing through
The raging night, earnest, shadowy, whispering.
I don’t know when the downpour stopped,
The blood, the tears, the salt tickling me,
Pulling me within, deeper still,
My crust and core, rising, floating
In the debris of the days, lost.