Fog

Stark crows and petals sweet, the rainy greens

That conjure words; lilting, lazy, saccharine 

Which curl like a trembling lips where trembling hands

Are hasty, where I shake the sun from my limbs and stand

As the architect of my own designs 

Keeping the blueprints of her fingers in mind 

I slip between silence and mumbling through bared teeth

Building effigies from the latticed ribs that hide beneath 

Our skin, a wordless atlas for the sake of those unspoken

A flat-line, white-noise - diverted or broken  

Crossing glances for the sake of the company

Soft with fondness, jaded with old jealousies

There's ivy itching in red lines across my eyes 

Across my mouth and wrists, just to disguise

The cadence of my chest in whispered halls 

Just to keep my lips taut, mouthing to olive walls 

With words like smoke creeping under the door 

My head is full of fog and still I tear my lungs for more.