I don’t want to feel any more.
Sever the nerve at the core
of its viny plain.
It deserves no more attention,
this scar that erupts,
a patina of memories,
revealing my palate for dust and dreams.
I slice through the torpid vein.
The blossom falls,
departs mother, wind,
all tomorrows upon the ceiling of the earth,
immerses itself in silence,
voices fading across the chasm left behind.
But I still feel,
soles of feet plunging waves,
the guitar pick that fell from his fingers,
charcoal curves upon my thighs,
when I whispered an arc across the satin void,
eyes searing through my lashes
and Vespers burning into my heart.
The tangle of ash and music,
it’s all a mess, a web of fabric, sighs,
laughter, love and paint streaming down
my face. Photos burning, screaming, tossing,
making love, a veil of passion shred into slivers of light.
