Drowned Glass

The shadow that sleeps at the base of your neck,

The one where cheap jewelry rested for so many years,

This is where I long to be,

To hang my head. To melt.

In California sand-air, we paint dreams like they are memories,

How fluorescent is this crimson on a winding highway?

We fly far from this life, drown the glass in thick mud,

And hold our breath like a silent infant, too still in the sheets.

This too, we can forget.

Slowly, I learned that there is always more.

In this tilt of perfect cinnamon hair,

His hands a thousand apologies hidden under scarves of sunset cotton, and pretty lights,

And I don't have to say anything.

There is blood in the mirror, there are scars that never fade hung on dusty hooks upon the wall.

Over cobblestone bridges, sirens grow faint,

And here I hold this pain to my chest,

As our shoes leave strange marks in the earth.