His naked hands, so cold
I become lavender
sticks poking from lace sheaths, wanting to
be a wedding dress
or just a piece of someone in love
the powder, aroma of a man
who forsook his lover last spring.
Her tomb is just a box filled with earth
that opens to the pearly
gate of heaven
and each of her legs have grown
stiff because god so desperately needed to
shape a marble mold of the most
perfect being he
ever created and killed way, way too soon.
(the road has ended as
many stories as it has begun)
Hot concrete pried her mouth open
and I will be the one to
sing through it until she gets her voice back
like using sugarcane
to lure clouds into leaving the sky.
YOU ARE READING
opals
PoetryA gemstone made of a hundred different ones, a gemstone with fire inside. He never finished his cigarette, put it out on my palm. I became an opal. Flashes of red, pink, sweet petals of flesh. I will love myself as soon as I can learn to love the un...
