Stitched into the fine print of longing
I find a shade of white that only ever rolled
with your eyes. Striped and flickering
You become dots
Or lines to a song I would rather
Forget. That white.
Placed in a locust of change.
Tied to the dark.
Or the Rattle of my room
Or whatever it is that plucks
its chords against
the edges
of Living. Catching my sleeve on
The bite I didn’t taste but
Lodged itself into the ripples
Of a rhyming blue sky. Your silence undresses me.
Presses a torn wing
In, stamps
iterations of glancing lines
Through me and this new cloudlessness,
A virginal quiet.
Settled.
One wing beating.
Photo Credit: Unsplash
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