pink hearts made of pig skin
when i said to you “all you are is skin to me, and bones and nothing more” i was afraid
afraid of our childhood memories, our dripped pomegranate juice of bodies slick and slouching of voices toneless fleeting,
demeaning of the ebb and flow of life and death drumming incessantly on my doorstep like an old lover.
the way it flooded our hearts, diluted our veins until one morning
it tells all: once alive you'll never need a cold love, inside the hills to be bones and nothing more.