Sta.sh
but darling, do not ask such things of a poet.
We live with death and feathers
in our bones, and you—
clouds have purpose, and one
is seldom alone in the sky. To
say, smart or handsome or
funny or caring, it is the lid
on the trash, never appreciated
till missing, and you—
undercover smell of well-water
and thick terra cotta clay,
a fallen angel left in smoke-screen
somewhere below the salt, the heart
still beats, and you—
a mythology come-to-life.
Hellion and savior, black-tipped
like raven wings, always more
in the right light
than just black
You smell of home.
That alone is what I will remember
when all the ink has faded and there
are no more hands
to reach for in the dark.
More than mere absence,
blacker than black,
the thought is so terrifying
that I write all around it
rather than finding the words
you've asked for.
your face and your hands
it has been you from the beginning
and there is no eulogy,
there is just you, still breathing.
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when all the ink has faded and there
are no more hands
to reach for in the dark.