Have we not seen the end
of lovers leaving?
Loss in the form of letters, tucked beneath
pillows without head prints?
Have we not mended
the fissures running mute
beneath the surface of
perfect skin?
The sun unfolds silent,
urging this decay in motion
as your fingerprints reappear
like
echoes.
Fossils of forgiveness.
What has been done once
will be accomplished
three times over.
The space for pain is splitting
in two. Do not
dare breathe, in spite
of this sucking surge.
We arch our
backs in silence, mold the
moon with naked hands. Steal the last
of fallen snowflakes
with the tips
of our tainted tongues.