August rushes back and forth. The land
brought to this blonde haired boy is unfamiliar,
yet engraved in his wrists, the name sketching
proximity.
He awakes to find her bowing over a violin,
outstretched hands, eyes an interlaced
chartreuse while bridges are all at sea
and the dead sings.
Staten Island, New York is where the rain
confesses its onyx daze straight toward the
drops of charcoal war and starless breaths.
Her words are written in smoke, lungs that
jump as he moves between the separation
from two shores. And he hopes to unveil
love's dance in a graveyard underneath
the East Coast.
For he will close his eyes once fog forgets to
speak again, and something inside him will revoke
the way love seemed to glitter in black curves,
rustled close to home and mysterious waters
by her crooning ships.
Love is not a guest that visits, it is a stranger
staying soaked over a child's limb and
learning how to make clarity out of stripped paper...
and be the rain he will travel by when it is time
for dreams to live.
