Not just a thin line but a chamber
of blue, ancient bruise, imperfectly
absorbed. You are the map
of a foreign land tattooed on the lining
of my chest, parchment I can't unfold
shipped within a tube, lost at customs
never heard of again. I try
distant readings, smoke signals
Morse code. Or close ones
with the very tip of my fingers.
I gather a single regret
you patiently reiterate, a plea
a request. Yes. But what did you say?
You are the flip side of your tombstone
the unwritten one, un-engraved.
Or I am. I am the flip side
of your tombstone, mossy, coated
with a veil of dampness. Forgive me.
I will sleep with you now, match
your imperceptible breathing
steady, eternal, they say.
~
First published by The Inflectionist
