My palms full,
how they drip of his doing, you pour into me;
a tender wine licking my skin into light.
The ocean in your mouth shone so bright with my body.
A blood magenta sang through her waves, O how she rippled;
my pulse, the repetitive wet stone.
Leaking slow out of this sea,
you went with the chime of tumor;
O how they echoed in my fathers body, grazing and bumping like nerves. the nervous boy,
he sleeps with scratches on the ceiling of his love,
his small hands fall cold and burned;
the shaking in his mother’s voice is too violent to breathe through, he did not feel.
And though it sings lovely early, and time has passed since,
morning, a sweet magic, still burns.
Small boy, know the sun still claws to be risen.
you should too, my dear, limping heart.