objects of your touch

(apart from me)

​

glass

​

you turned my skin into.

fragile, as you broke it

in

and transparent,

to reflect your touch

upon my insides.

​

image

​

in my interior,

where your fingers

are writhing. every stroke is

distortion of my muscles.

but once i wish them to be

wrung out and dried,

it is sought out, your touch,

out of my flesh.

only to run

along my every vein.

then returning, undrowned

by my blood,

to be pumped again, about my body,

again, force-full.

until, upon numerous

total internal reflections,

it has weathered down

the glass of my skin, wish

-ious.

​

sand

​

it mustn't settle to cause

sedimentation in my lungs,

compacted by a heavy heart.

and so each breath is

choking,

though the sand is the proppant

that keeps my passages from closing.

it is heaving,

a disposition in my chest,

closer yet to restoring my heart,

weary, in its place.

so i breathe,

for it is also

a breath of you

out of me.

​

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