You Sleep Between the Sighs and the Sunrise

You sleep between the sighs and the sunrise:
Scratch marks running down your back like train tracks,
Chasing the curvature of your pale spine,
The memories of the moans in the black.
You wake each day with fresh finger traces,
Repeatedly healed in the night until new.
Different; distant. Slowly, you are time-changed –
A concertina of hands holding you.

But not mine. Now I just stitch the remnants
Of what is left in the dark of my dreams,
Wearing your aftershocks as a pendent,
Oscillating wildly between extremes.
The doctors would call my love a crisis.
My lips condense heartbreak into silence.

Citrus Kisses

It’s like you can open my chest with temper.
I’ve never known pain that spreads like ivy,
That grows in hot, poisonous unrest,
That tightens around my flesh like masonry,

But you know how to run your fingers
Through my trembling branches of ribs
And splinter each bone-like twig. You linger
On each nerve, ending. You search in my skin.

I want you to dig down. Find my origami heart
Of disjointed angles and let it ache
In your smaller hands. Pull me apart
With double-edged lips, I am yours to take.

Because even though each wound sings you vicious,
I still crave the sting of your citrus kisses.