Photo courtesy of Kat Kelley / Unsplash

god, i’m sick of lavender iced blues

without a way to break through to the sky

your chilled hand on my broken shoulder

forever indebted to the grip of a strained muscle

i call you on the phone like it means something to you

but every shrill of a lifeless dial tone means everything

to me

if you saw me open-hearted on the cold floor

i cannot imagine that your veins would flutter

so deeply debilitated by the shine of the sky that your thunderstorm drowns my baby away

there she goes down the river and into the chute

where the only vivacity comes from the taste of heated, burgundy blood

i want to be consumed by the tails of your breath

watch my eyes dim, my teeth sink into my rotted corpse, watch my hand reach

out to you

i see you, asleep, in the white sheets

while the tone whistles

and the color of your skin

fades into me

for now that you are gone

i can breathe with minute labor

one peaceful, crisp breath

until i wait for my own clear sky

not a soul around to judge us

as our remains bloom into soil

i’m sorry.