Maybe they will wait for a little while longer to see if the birds return. Mouthing their warm bodies against the hood of the cold. The turning of a doorknob in a crystal champagne room, fall your face into my hands, fall down the rabbit hole, fall up inside the stars. These words you take are the breath of me, my breath a mere illusion.
Please do not. my fragile blood cannot bear the chime of your laughter, that smile of yours will surely peel my skin from the silk of her cloth. It is dark inside the nest I built of shadows, the light and the darkness always forbidden and undressing themselves here, always one without the other, always both speaking at once.
The ticking of a clock: footsteps.
Time is running out
and in
on us.
When it all slows down we are made to face ourselves. It hurts like hellfire behind the eyes when the sun swells so. I used to write like morning dew and now I write like the gray grass beneath the dying, always trembling, always on the heels of the ashes of leaving. Drinking the hips of melancholy static, this is the way I was sewn into a body which never quite fits.
It will be love, I know, I know, it will be love which tears me away from you.
Love laid bare on the wings of a soul adrift, love the rain in the iron garden,
love the silent water bathing night among the reeds.
.
Allison Marie Conway 