Your exhalation
is a crease in my skin:
there, where it should be,
by force of nature.

I wake
again and again
like clockwork,
to your open arms;
My empty thoughts
combatted by your
restless idealism
and acceptance
of morning renewal.

Your inhalation
is an oratorio in my head:
climbing, soaring,
a pitch perfect arpeggio.

And I dream of such perfection
to seal these cracks
that expand and contract
with the lunar cycle,
but never repair.

But you teach me daily,
not in so many words,
that I set my sights
on oases and apparitions.

You whisper to me nightly
that there is more
to be found between
daybreak and sundown,
between the expansion
and constriction of a blood vessel
buried deep in my chest cavity;
the macro and the microcosm.

And I would believe you
were it not for the fact
that all my silent observations
have only led me here.
To this realisation:

That I was an open wound long before I knew what it meant to bleed.

03/28/2007

Posted on 03/27/2007
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