On mists in idleness—to let fair things
|Pass by unheeded (John Keats)|
to the fingers tracing the topography of our bodies
each breath is an aftershock that alters the terrain.
this moment has edges.
unlike the punctuating pause
in between i love
where we fall.
exhaling amidst the impossible
to sleep among the tremors.
(madness is a flame that our souls write upon)
the sound of moisture weighed down.
the taste of salt and woodsmoke upon your neck.
the sight of calm in a windswept leaf.
the touch of an embers resting embrace.
the scent is mourning.
(never is the place you'll find silence)
the sight of an other's dark house is the same.
the taste of love is sweet, and crumbles.
the touch is wakeful under the cover of an early dusk.
the scent of a warm door closing.
the sound of a deafening wind that moans alone.
each breath is an aftershock
each aftershock an embrace