When

In your death-stained hands

you bury your head

above the white-turned-red shirt

silent bombs blowing

building craters for homes

on a sanded heart

--

Eight letters can frustrate

the hardest of hearts

but when we say it

we sweep under the rug the realities

we promise another

so we hide ourselves under the sheets

we call home

but home ran away a million years ago

--

You - who carried your promise to death

rewarded with blood on your hands -

return to me

You - who witnessed the dark

return their stares -

come to me

I - who have waited in heavier silence -

I - who committed my time in your hands -

look at me through the lens of your tears

have I not wished for us to be

unity?

--

You unwrap the tie around me

as you open me up as a gift

a child's plaything for Christmas -

you split open from your legs

and I trace a river into your chest

with the comb of my tongue -

I fail to bend the cowlick from the root

as ecstasy awaits in our reunion

so I enter paradise

and I become the slave to your passion

again and again.

---

First published in Outland Magazine.