and stealing our homes
while escaping our furthest
veins; the withering magic
dusted with melancholy blue.
I wonder what his passionate
arks do with my hurt.
that passionate stranger that
saw through my second finger
lining.
cleaner substitutes of layers
and layers of clay nerves;
awaiting the dawn of
letters to my younger
self.
catch me while I'm falling
then be sure to hold me
in my own dented grief;
for it is i who
sleeps on his
kind blue hands.
