Thursday, October 30, 2008


I wake.

The air weighs heavy here.
I trace longing on your temples.
Could we be fortunate?

Light is dripping down the windowsill.
Your skin is bruised with shadows.

You are draped in a coat of grief.

You go where I cannot follow.
You are the wanderer.
And I am shaking from the loss.

Where have you gone when you are so close?

We belong to the gutters.
Children born of black blood,
Thickly coursing, weighing us down.
The will cut you,
Slice into your shoulder blades.

You will grow and dust the rooftops.

I will wake alone.
And ponder your small breath.


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