Collaring my wrist, taking veins
that murmur like violins
which are a moonstone blue
out of your betrothal-
because I have been cleaving together
moonlight
only donned by me,
far too many times,
on skin that has
been inked into brands
containing you.
The anchors of your eyes
are not holding me in,
instead, I feel like a pedestal
where a million photographs
of TIME flood through
and I can't spill
my heart, my propensity.
For to you, I am just an
allusion of a night
that never capered,
a moment where teacups and vines
we washed ourselves with
stopped ascribing
and began to break other memories
by condoning how small,
how unsafe
I'll always remain...
that anyone trying to wrap me up,
will remit where I arch.
How lost my fingers are
from moving on
with a breath that won't find the
bottom of knives or the edge of
a bypass....
I am done performing films
where I wear your
crescent hands-
