Cold Smoke

I gave you swans with broken necks;
I was eighteen and mistook them for flowers.
Wrote a lot about your spine,
about your fists —
I liked the crack and swing of bone.
It was easier the first time;
before I knew the strain of having these hands —
before I knew about the seas they would fail to corral,
and all the full moons they could never hold.
Seven years.
It’s been seven years
and I still laugh
like a broken mirror
sometimes.
Seven years.
It’s been seven goddamn years
and I still think about how you loved me
like a held breath
you wanted to
let go of.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: