What am I if not a sigh – blate.
A brief exhalation that pares the soft half-closed barrier of your lips.
I am the ever steady silence;
the fill the space where I once was; me your hungry ghost.
Years I have carried that silver spoon
engraved in careful script with the word “Happy”.
I keep it in a silver butter-dish by my bedside;
a sacred object; a small piece of you.
Lover’s eyes open their salty spigot;
cry a sea in which we gladly drown.
How does a lover cry against a broken, falling, failing brick wall in the city…
A rushing by bicycle sweeps through the heart’s blood,
sending shrieking crimson drops into the air,