What would it take to touch the face
the one you hide away,
everything I cannot stand about the way you move
lives here on the dark side of my shoulder in
all the days which mark with red the end.
As the scrapes glide down the thin cell walls
of my fragile
mind, I am made to come apart
and yet
I am only washing my knees with
small tears at the feet of it.
Whatever this is,
believe me.
Wherever we need to go,
take me.
We have been there before (we have been everywhere
we just couldn’t see it was forever) and we
know the finger streets in the palms
of it
and it knows our gravel stone
hearts bleed well.
Whatever this is calls to me from the
holes in your eyes.
It contains and contaminates everything we
cannot bear to
speak about.
Please forgive my dying mouth but,
my love, this quiet is becoming so
loud.
This crimson world crawling upon my lungs
is crumbling, ashes to ashes
dust to dust and I
am afraid I do not know how
to count backwards from
I might
be losing you.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 