Artifacts

My thoughts are creepers 

Which grow, leaning against reality,

Watered by the night in all its darkness 

And dewdrops in the form of stars that twinkle:

Cool to the touch, glistening with hope

Wrapping themselves far too tight 

Around me – alive and also not, 

like a goat for sacrifice. 
I blink. 
My hands are free to wander 

Above, around, beneath, below:

Against the grain, and sweat from bodies

From which I pull all of my despair out and hang 

It out to dry in the heat of the sun when 

My thoughts shrink back into their pod

disappear from the recesses of mind 

Like acetone off linoleum.
I inhale. 
My mouth unveils my verses 

And raises the hair on the back of his back 

And my neck to stand in ovation, respecting 

The distance between us, like water on the edge 

Of a waterfall receding – slowly; to the rhythms

Of instruments facing extinction, sacraments

Of single copy smudged by fingers of overuse 

Like the language of love. 
I laugh.
My eyes are suddenly a fertile

Ground for tears, a fabric ripped apart 

From the seams of feeling by the agonies

Of life: such is the story, that if I wove every tear 

In this stained tapestry together, close into 

A circle, and hung it with feathers from 

Birds that sing of murder and sleep

It still wouldn’t catch a dream. 
I turn around. 
I walk away. 

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My love is a rainbow, my love is the rainĀ 

My love makes me want to play again. 

I’ve been looking around for reasons all along, 

and have only found them 

in his eyes:

I like to think now

how all the time that I can’t see them 

is just because he’s blinking. 

He blinks so much that I can’t breathe

And I feel so much 

That I can’t blink, and

miss it – or him

I can’t miss it

Or him. 

My love left behind a puddle

that reflects rainbows 

in the sun. 

The summer heat 

will have to fight me 

before it takes him away.

I will let my fingers 

wander over the keys again,

hoping that the sound 

can describe what 

his smile feels like,

And that it somehow melts into the sound of his voice:

The slight tremble at the end of his sentences 

And the end of his fingers 

At the beginning of his touch 

And of my hands 

in his hands 

and our hands 

Dancing to a rhythm 

That only they know of.

Will rain let the dust 

settle back onto ground 

Like eager footsteps?

Black 

against white 

against black. 

Can song bring people back home?