Your tongue, a landing strip
a foreign object,
shrinks this city right down.
A part of me, walks barefoot,
listening to all the stories you hid
beneath it, unrelenting.
The weight of which sin
laces it shut?
does it ever mutter anything more
than enigma anymore?
I saw your face and I know now
what you mean.
There’s no good
learning to orientate
you couldn’t protect.
My efforts to provide peace
are almost as unrefined as my stubbornness.
Like yours, it cuts out of fear.
Tell me woman,
will the world ever be ready
to see your face?
Will you shed these glasses
which live to frame
I knew if I got too close,
I’d break at my own incompetence.
Isn’t that the irony,
that dichotomous irony of my existence?
My peace comes with a headache.
Woman. Ladybug. Burning Phoenix,
I became a raven to shut out the draft
of this autumn.
It hurts to shield you from the very thing
I wanted so desperately to bare.
But darkness is selfish.
It swallows the good and the bad,
and you of all people, know that.
But you take care.
and these synchronicities
will once again yield to your whims.
The stars will align,
intertwined with stories
of your head finally above the waves.
Meet me again.
Meet me again, when you’re dormant.
A blank canvas,
and neither of us would ever
unread trauma to save others.
Meet me again,
where the train doesn’t stop at any station
where the destination
is the opening of a wall clock,
where we reset this illusion.