Your white days. [day 17]

‘i cried
because my skin
was so red, rust red, against
your white palms, i cried
because we could not bleach
the colour from the shot.
It still smokes like
vodka on my throat.’
 
‘You do not cry because
to me you gave your last
blue breath
to tucked in a corner
of my lungs. You cannot
cry because my throat
is unopen.’

‘The room buzzes
calmly, but i wonder
what it would say if it
saw yesterday’s roses? they were
so exquisite i thought i might
pluck one—
but You told me i
could not. i cried for this
too.’

‘Your voice is
smeared with ink, so let us
instead regard the pock-marked
ceiling, tilt our heads upwards so
our words may
slip back away
behind

our eyeballs.’