I.
There is the clanging and clashing from a thousand war cadets.
Imprints on a foggy window
Overflow from the sink
into the indigo sea
of pride and screams.

My blood.
From violet lace around my eye,
out of a skylight in my ribs
that gave you a look in,
a loving brushstroke on my lips.
Our blood.

There is the constant sounding of wailing emergency sirens,
luring every muse with reverberating cries
that slip out of a tangerine mouth,
flying past like a plague of moths.
Empty, naked, bare.

There is a flyover of a body that spreads across the land here.
A monolith. Salvation.
For the roads below are as filthy
as raw, pulsing, flesh.
Films of grime coat even our fingers.

It is vast here. Too vast.
No setting sun or headlights
to burn our eyes blind
as we ride off.

II.
An alarm
shrieks. I run
to you
to the store
before it closes;
before your mind closes.

(I run
with hurting feet, form calluses,
form religion, form bridges,
then demolish it.)

In a gas station at midnight
illuminated eyes barely meet
those educated ones
underneath hair that shines
like the wet asphalt did,
cold as his hands.

But persistent yellow pansies sprout
out the cracks in his chipped teeth,
twirling, his gums purely displayed wide.

Reassurance is knowing that I can hold that face,
(with the dilated dots of my crossed pupils)
baby fat pillows pressing against my under nails.
A monastery in this lonesome place.

III.
Or maybe it’s just the sweet harsh nights in the capital of Sweden.
(stuck between the “I love you”s and “I can’t”s I swallowed back.)

© lilac_of_hope