Pressed clean against the edge
of the glass,
fevers were managed then.

In this dust past the riots of our eyes
crushing to waver in the absence
of a single starred dawn,
for it's how I really see you,
budlusted beneath the elm.

Silent because your mouth is gone...

Sing to me with lips of ice,
for the night is long and cold;
I am buried in your skin, hands
stretching out thin as icicles;
I have known this feeling before.
Rip me, strip me of this facade
I will not break beneath you.

A canvas crinkled
just outside the edges of reason;
beg me to be anything but what you'll notice,
cut this hole in the mattress and hide
for the cameras are chasing our acts tonight.

Drenched still frames
are bent and licked in the dark room.
Raise your chin just high enough
to please the gods.

I'd beg to find
a sketch artist capable
of drawing you back together in the morning.

01/31/2011