in the morning,
i wrap my cold body
in sheets of rain
and onyx thunder clouds
that are outside my window
passing by
like people walking down the street.
the puddles and branches
shiver in the wind,
as the grey ice water
flows through
the rivers in my body,
while i think about
what it means to die
in the dimming yellow
glow of the streetlights.
watching the firewood,
pile up against a stone
wall without
a flame, cannot shift
my shape from this permanent
rigor mortis.
awake and indifferent,
smelling like an
unwashed dog,
i wait for the light
to die
so i can bury today
in the cobalt dusk
under ashen fog.
fingernails digging
through a chest covered
in moss
looking for a heart
that's still thumping,
never at peace.
i've been around
other people,
had friends,
lovers, and
even sex, but
i know no one.
and i hold nothing.
beating back
blue rogue waves
that capsize ships
with supple palms
the size of cliffs,
i can feel the erosion
from a succession of days
breaking boulders
into tiny specks
before being swept
away by the exhaust
after a deep breath.
the warning signs
are in the smoke signals
drifting through the sky.
dripping wet,
sliding in between
photographs
and
dreams,
i lie next
to a low comforting
sound that has culled
me to sleep
for so long,
because it's familiar.
because it's mine.
because it's something you'll
never hear or understand,
which is what keeps my body
warm in the darkness
when my eyes
see nothing.
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