Your talking.
I am not listening.
I am thinking about frosted flowers
and a touch that goes on for hours.

Nothing is right,
not when you know
someone you love is going to go.
Especially, when that person is you.
There is a special kind of insanity in losing someone.
Can't sleep, can't eat, can't think, can't live, can't love.

I dream my hand is disguised by your hand.
Your fingerprints
make me buzz in unusual ways.
My collarbone
breaks apart
stops the pulse pushing my heart.

I tug my eyes away from your eyes,
my life away from your life.
I have no ease in dreams that aren't nightmares
or admiring your face without care.

I bite my bottom left lip
and you won't notice the blood
or the grave I just dug
to bury it all.

If only there was a morphine resurrection on the third day.
Some kind of lovely dread
that snatches me up
and takes your breath away.

You are still talking but I am listening finally.

I like the obvious sound of your voice.
A tone that would stumble in around midnight
Maybe from loneliness or maybe by choice.
Where the only relief we will find in the night
explodes into the Dresden Firestorm light.
Helpless bodies on fire.
On my blanketed funeral pire.

But my coals are buried
underground,
where the oxygen is gone.
I know I would take you down
with or without your trembling sound.

12/15/2010

Posted on 12/15/2010
Copyright © 2024 Lori St. George