“Me Merciful”

Fighting by your hands,

lingering in the stairwell.

My fists tucked between my thighs.

You breathing my breath,

stealing much more than my sunrise.

How did this happen?

Who is to blame?

Was it the night sky,

who brought us together?

Or was it the rain?

Caking my skin with marble,

encasing by your touch.

You were gone

before I had a chance to dry.

“Momentis Prose”

There stands time, not as a grandfather, but as a threadbare coat. Thrown on the bed, or the vertebrae of a chair, waiting. Time waits for no man, but birthed patience in the stead of something greater. This coat, a needy thing, rejects all who wear it, particular to a fault. And whose fault is it? Is it he, worrying at the dregs of his morning coffee? Is it she, plucking mournfully at the whiskers of her cello? Or is it the unfinished manuscript, curled against the banister, forgotten? This coat, with ears upturned, eyes tarnished, and smeary skin, it neglects to mention who it waits for. The thing retains glorious roots and an empty tongue. This vain supposition lies misbegotten, its birth not of the womb but of the mind. Can you feel it now, tugging at your sleeves with its dull teeth? Chipping away at your eyesight, a malignant Michelangelo. Immortality is a broken sewing machine, pinned to the eyes of the beholder. I think you’ll understand when you’re older.