Fair Flying

the memory I miss the shadows that spin past eyelids, onto the floor, and legs sprouting like leaves from blanketed branches. I miss feeling your wounds heal under my mouth. I miss the coils of coalish petals you left on my pillowcase. I miss the unseen grins, minutes before sunrise. I miss sleep talk, on and off, biological alarms that sang me awake. I miss limbs against limbs, the art of the sleepless, and the blinking bruises of morning. the lament It’s Hell to wash the mess, to pick apart clinging wire, to accept that my body is just a body, and our love is shredded wrapping paper, unraveled piles of glittering ribbon, scarlet cellophane. It’s burning candles ‘til wax coats the table. It’s leaving the lights on all night, waiting for a rush of dust, a surge of music, a dash of pink salt and a bite of burnt pastry. It’s sliding off the roof and getting stuck in the gutter, coughing when you in

Woke up with your teeth lodged in my shoulder and wondered if my aura sticks to the roof of your mouth - azure wax spilling down lips and organs, between joints and nerves. My mind is a charred wick, crumbling. Woke up with flakes of ash on my sleeve, exhausted from thinking deeper than I can breathe. My body is wax, hardening to your shape. But when the flame falls, smoke spurts like blood and I crack.

between your mouth and crown, i’m waiting for a silent answer to a silent question like an atheist who prays. stitches aren’t thick enough to fix our broken souls, so i’ll take the pieces and unify, starting with fingers and auras, third eyes and toes. i’ll lace the pair of us like shoes, so we trip and fall. i want to play with your spirit, your sap, your being. i want to turn your tears to tea. my favorite part is not knowing what you’d do if i did.

I used to pour the last drop of tea down the drain. That was before the fall, before every crumbling piece was a ceramic wing, before an inner solstice had begun. I was a tool for gods to use. Now, I am their voice. I drink the last drop while the moon stretches, on the edge of ecstatic orgasm. Think of the oceans that wouldn’t exist without our tears, or holes in the earth, empty without our blood. Think of the walls we broke to build new ones. I drink the last drop while two girls across the street stumble in high heels like children playing dress-up. I would too, if I knew how to follow lamplight. But I’m not quick to kick, spinning into the night like a leaf - no, I am everlasting and cold. I am the the final swig, the ending sip. I am the seed you never spilled, but drank ‘til the last drop.

you're syrup that's too sweet for me. our souls are stuck, (without permission) wound and bound by cobwebs, curly q’s, dust clumps. but i don’t want the kind of love you can crush with bare hands. i want the good stuff, (not over-the-counter) the kind that weaves pages in leather-bound bowels. all i have is sap for paint, blood for rouge, and glue to keep my eyes shut when they’d rather look at you.

You shatter in my hands, litter my skin. I keep your pieces in pockets, key holes, flower pots. Cracked eyes gaze from windows - bloody cobwebs clinging to eggshells. One day, you’ll be swallowed by garbage trucks, but for now, you stick and clutter.

The bomb killed twenty two, twelve too young to drive. (Still dying.) On the coast, I hear it - blasted white caps ripping flesh. The fish they feed are dying too. At his concert, Matty yells, We’re proud to be from Manchester! The crowd spouts roses, glow sticks, and smoke. I leave - too dizzy to sing or think. Security stops me - checks my pockets for bombs - finds shards of the world. Why do you have these? They scream. I thought music would fuse them, I plead, reaching and pulling God from the smog, but they can’t see. They stumble and puff - too numb to feel a heartbeat.

You advise: smile more, cry less! Sorry, I forgot - feelings aren't mine to possess.

Lungs huff morning. Sun drips in pores—honey in tea—reeks of rum. Backs warped—pink Solo cups floating in bins—wasted. Eyes raw—coins thumbed by scholars who can’t let go of bottles—trip over papers strewn across crumbs on sheets on bodies on beds, and then— thesis: the cure is —

Non-believer, your lashes fashion mystery—stories of thorny eyes, silk wine, blood spraying stone. Non-believer, you are the anchor in God’s ruby sea. Your arms are pillars, your mouth a cross, your skin scripture. Non-believer, you bleed Truth. The Gospel’s in your hips and fists, under chewed nails, traced fingerprints. You are the incarnate Unknown—something you hate so much—what I love most.