the sky has not
woken
yet i’m up for
its birth-
forgoing sound
rest,
on the dawn of
new hope,
i’m suspicious
at best.
shadow work
taken at
face
as mine’s ground into the
shoulder of your
sweater
to keep life from
finding me
buried in
us.
love is energy imbuing
old blood
that shan’t pump
through the
pipes
of machine who
so longs to
be real.
rushing to
no point
to scan where i’ve
come from
only to drift
back
and start doomed
race like
new.
hollow point
tip
flush against tender
temple
turns from chosen
target
and melts
down.
caught her not
looking
as he entered
the room-
grown too used to
her gaze
spotlighting
his way.
a fallen rose petal
covers my
eye,
its salve soothing
me deep
as it
blinds.
pixabay
love
is a handful
and i’m losing
grasp
of that which made
me crave
touch
in the first
place..
your palm over
my face.
grief
holds crouched
like child frozen
in her own
shadow,
waiting for the
warmth of
human
light
to thaw her
heart.
spent the day scraping at
clouds with my
thoughts,
then hid under
their weight
until fully
lost.
hands in the garden 
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