Blue Baby Buries Me

I’m getting all shivery in your ghost frame,
Should’ve loved your plum-lips better, I’ve felt fog
Cloak the washing lines, the sky wet with stars
I’m folding back my bones like corncob skin,
I want to trace your jaw with honeycomb and last year,
Live in stone cottages and count money,
So much money it sticks to our hands like glue,
But your hands are gone like winter,
Resonance like breeze, and softer than flames dying,
Your ghost-frame locked around my torso
Has raised like rain and I’m all sunset-coloured,
It’s unnatural.

Then and now, I bite my thumbs to squeeze you out
Of my cuticles, to bleed you out of my fingerprints,
But I can feel you resisting that heat humming
From my breath,
On opposite sides of the coin we used to drag our heels
In corridors when the rest of humanity would mock our hair
Our bags,
Our clothes.
You’ve rippled through my branches,
This voice called home, it brews tea and grills chicken,
Spreads butter on toast and feels like slippers on feet watching TV
I can’t shake the water out of my hair I’ll lose droplets of your kisses
I’ll lose you among the lily pads,

When I hold my hands out I want a key to unhinge them,
Padlock your palms to mine so I can read the letters form in your mind,
Tear-filled gloop smears my face like war paint
I want your face for make-up, I call your phone late at night
And there’s the taste of your tongue,
The sun beating up the bastard sky to bruises and cordial,
Tower sandwiches and your hold
Tossing me over like a tide, I’m running over in cartwheels
You’re the chickenpox that never left my sweet,
All melted into the veins, all sighing and solidifying like hard caramel,
I should’ve loved your rain more,
I should’ve tasted your cloud-eyes more,
I drag myself up into a box,
Buried back into your head from 30 years ago,
When only I mattered instead.

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