when you wore skin made from shadows,
i wrote down your every breath
and saved them on the sanctuary of my tongue.
i spoke you to the morning glory blooms
so that your sadness would be beautiful, and temporary.
i spoke you into willow bark
and kept my fever in another language, privately.
in the time of my wicker bones,
in that year when i broke and burned,
dispersing myself and then coming home
to my new name,
i was sure of your constancy.
i need more eyes, so i can see the reason why you weren't.
a gift of pain makes it easy to find my heart--
it is that badly balanced wing, in the center of me, spread in foolish display.
in the time of the eclipse,
i saw a double shadow that i imagined might be us.
now, you are more beautiful than ever,
but not mine, and lost to the language of those darker days.