Thursday, September 1, 2016

Too much space

It didn’t sink
It didn’t come to rest at the bottom of my rib cage

Hanging from that curved bone
Like star dust might hang from the moon

I was wet fingers on a wet glass 
Slipping out and shattering all of our many pieces on the floor

I carried us both inside

I think if it was your broke open on the floor
It would only be reflections of you

I couldn’t stain myself inside of you
I used to tell people that we were like Chinese finger cuffs
No matter which way we pulled we were stuck fast.

Your finger slipped out
Somewhere in the night
An elusive fish swimming into the cavernous dark

It wasn’t sinking in

There was too much space inside my rib cage

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