The Whisper

A whisper,
sapphire, spiral breath
in the air. We choke
on language. Our silent hands
hold each other
up. The staircase
is a treacherous place,
though.

I at the top.
You at the bottom
of a death match,
strangled by guilt,
waiting for a whisper to
mend your wounds.

You turned me to salt.
I do not breathe.
I cannot whisper.
My eyes have become two
blue deserts.
My voice, a cactus.
I am rolling over barren land,
searching for hard water

and you stand, at the bottom
of the world, in a white ocean begging
me to whisper.

I Was Her Before The Sun Went Down

and who was I at midnight?
Your throat on firewater, swallowing
baggy, flabby tongues.
It is no matter,
tonight is seven hundred stories high

and I am ready to jump. Before I do, though,
I remember you
and sitting on your lap,
the shot,
the bounce,
your heavy gunman.

The moon has a chain on it,
this I never told you,
I put it there myself, several years ago.
It lingers patiently, sleepily awaiting me,
tied up and braced for thunder.

I will come pounding from the top
of your world, the last one I was shown,
up seven hundred staircases
to reach,
to grab,
to attach myself to the moon.

I have a long connection from brain
to chest, in gentle condition,
you were always soft,

not like this scratched metal chain
stabbing in to thin purple veins, on purpose,
a reminder.

A reminder that it is always just after midnight,
no matter what anyone says.