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.