I will inhale your mossy eyes

and exhale my insecurities

that flow through me like a river.

It has become polluted

with bare flesh and

a number I am too ashamed to say.

Boar’s bristle brush against my cheek,

the closest I ever got 

to your gift wrapped

vascular bundle

and we abandon 4am, 

and balconies

meant to be balconies

and it was like grass roots.

and we renounce arctic breath

in chests

and I don’t know why

I feel loss

and lost.

A moth heart,

forms like dust on the attic rafters.

The key has been swallowed

and

dust collects

in my wings

kissing the folds

and darkening every color

making a new pattern

for unworthy clasped hands.

Then staining them 

with fragments, granules, cinders

and dirt

of mistaken warmth;

it was just weakness.

I have been kissed on the cheek 

with no conclusion

too many times.

Like a reoccurring dream

it will resolve

and settle the stomach

of the behemoth

when I wake up.

and I don’t know why

I feel loss

and lost

It was a nice idea,

a moth heart

opened up like a paper fan

but they still go back to the 

hot, hot light

singeing scales

and coming back for more.

Hurdled away

like people from ships.

Every other wave

becomes a beckoning back home

and every hill

is your invitation up.

Your words closed over me.

Like fallen tree trunks

and flawless snow

so accelerated

but cohesive.

It felt like 

a foreign language 

that I didn’t know

but understood anyway

creating a lace veneer

thick over my eyes

like honey

And I don’t know why

I feel loss

and lost.

You infected my stomach

with butterflies 

beating their wings

like fists, 

against a wall

and the wall does not break

does not crumble

does not chip

they were built too high

and every crack

had been fortified

with a gut reaction// instinct

to run.

One day the wings will be clipped

and pinned to a board

for inspection

and safe keeping.

The board will be hung

on a burgundy wall

aligned

and adjacent to

other cheap

and petty keepsakes

sitting still

and collecting 

filth.

And I feel like dust on moth wings.

And I feel like dust on moth wings.

And I feel like dust on moth wings