Nothing more fertile
about the iron dust,
to end the rapid flood
of nourishing blood,
to carve a quiet complexion
in the smallest of seas.
Connection had been
our infection,
a deceptive serenade.
Light had been reused,
becoming just moonlight
after each excuse.
We’ve drowned
under an inch deep,
of careless consideration
of who we were
when alone.
An isolated puddle
reflected history
of lost pages
of bold words.
We weren’t ashamed
to admit we died,
releasing our song
as a constant dirge.
Nothing as unabashed
as a face that empties
its flowing contents
on footprinted floors.
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