Your bones are sharp chips of obsidian, lacing the marrow.
and we swallow fish scales,
searching for sad pierrots with silk tears.
desperate hands clamber for the scars of youth;
a childish whisper wrapped in the cloth of moth-eaten raincoats.
We curled in the cold light of the letterbox
drinking in the weight of unmarked stamps
from the Dead Sea.
I held broken satellites to your lips
so you could kiss the stars
and you whispered prayer to Botticelli
and the colours of Lovecraft
tissue-papered with gold.
We trip over the wings of bluebird cries
as snow melts our teeth like wax
and blood the colour of crushed red velvet
that we hold close to beating hearts.
we left our ear in the hum of shells
where the salt water flowed;
hoping the ocean would hear us in return.
later placing bruised necks to hang from dusty curtains
in reds and blues
speaking Latin to the souls of saints
a gospel of secrets for the damned.
your mouth shaped the petals of fleurs-de-lis
a worship to Pandora
and the sins that faded into earth.
God gave me his hands
to paint lovers in the flesh
and we became the hallowed fools;
the clasp of brass and tattooed infidels
foreign tongues that spoke empty blessings
to a red womb.