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These lovers

cough linen and dust.

These lovers

hold their bones

warm

in hope.

A black river

playing dead

wrapped

like two rat snakes

begging the other

not to leave.

It’s not sand

they miss.

It’s not you I miss.

It’s not the quiet

sleeping in empty houses

I miss.

It’s not something I can give.

It’s not something I’ve found.

If my hands wake

covered in dead crickets

I’ll know

nothing immaculate lives.

When you visit me

the doorman tells you

have mercy on his soul.

My curtains nailed to the wall.

I needed someone to talk to

and when the breeze was distracted

I pinned her lovers.

Now

I lie in gold waves

and watch our black rivers

twist and kiss

knowing the past

never switches sides.

Just the future

without allegiance.

I hold roses for uncertain

times and grease my lips

in the Golden wells.

That’s time enough

to go.

Enough time to rearrange.