The Architecture of Your Breath

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Time is a thin hawk circling our heads,

a rusted blade that wants to cut the tether of our breath.

​There is never enough of this golden light,

never enough salt, or skin, or sudden rain.

The clocks are heavy with sand and forgetfulness,

they want to bury the roots of our laughter.

But here, in the small room of our arms,

the seconds lose their teeth.

​You are the water that forgives the parched earth.

When I am broken, you are the green shoot

breaking through the ash of my old selves—

a rebirth of moss and fire, a kindness

as vast as the belly of the sea.

​Let the hours go to their dark work.

We have found the current that does not dry,

the truth that tastes like wild honey and granite.

I love you as one loves certain dark things,

secretly, between the shadow and the soul,

where time is only a word the wind forgot to say.

(dedicated to Momma Mushroom)