a promise

june 20, 2009

your cold hands will become a home
to my dead murdering bones
these apparitions i would hold so close

your patchwork lungs unfurl away
from distant corners and tapestries
form an ocean that will swallow us

and there's no need or place for this.
heart chambers and hands hold it close
and i won't let it fall from me
your skin made of glass and winter seas
scattered fast from autumn hands.

and i washed forth from the pillowy shores
the darkened mirrors and opened doors
our stories all unfold like paper maps