the moment where the breath of our lungs
become the things we don’t say
the silence that’s some kind of madness
our faces red and noses pressed as cherubs furrowing after sun’s
snowflakes to the tongue near the coming of dawn
emptied out vacant apartments
broken blinds, and ash
marks the touch of these fingers
we’d wrestle in cornfields, listen in song,
speak in riddles and answer in rhyme
fingers long enough to scratch my back in one stroke
small enough to fumble keys
and write poetry like things
smile by dozen and joke by crime,
dancing to the rhythm of the shadows of the sun,
these days I’d reach into the depths of ears
and suck away the tears before the falling
swallow whole the world
the words come easy, the days come long
eternity seems forever and one.
take comfort in knowing no one can know me more intimately
than the tornado flush dump
of a toilet.
A/N: LOL. Not my best. It's the (trying) marriage of two incompatible poem-scraps. I dun even. I'm debating on scrapping away the italics.