beneath me you hum
as I cup my hands
and feed you pollen
a time before no-longer exists
if they removed my heart for examination
half of you would be wound around
the nethermost ventricle
you may be unaware
I possess a box beneath my bed
scarred with time, varnished poorly
containing all the grief I used to wear
to disguise the hole in my chest
every hour spent
laying in our symmetry
counting time to the sonancy of your heartbeat
I grow roses from what once only bore thorns
I ever gave up and painted myself with tar
for the feathers to devour
this kind of love
cannot be broken
like a bone, or a well formed promise
attracting the elasticity of the impossible
and when you leave, even if only for a day
I reach for you anyway
with the devotion of a child
laboring to master her letters
one eye to the sky
its endless, unbidden surround.
4 Replies to “Chanteuse”
Loneliness never sounded so sweet.
“Almost convinced” and “Almost forgetful” – no small things for a love to do when doubt and pain have been so long and strong.
That is beautiful.
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