I want time

Fingers pressed
hard against your navel.
You used to be so soft,
so strong,
muscles beneath me that
actually knew
where they were going,
who they were part of.
Today you fall beneath me.
Today I press my fingers
through your skin
into your abdomen.
You're dry inside.
You're dry.
I rip you open,
seams up and down,
dry and dry and dry.
White water
and reflections of trees,
black with the ravens
and night.
Gasping stars
and loose braids.
Give me stealth
and stability
on my own legs,
so cold and cold.
Give me the time
to walk through red
into pure light again.
I only want
to sit alone for a while.
Plaid and peregrine,
orange and dulling
with the moments
the dirt pulls up
by the root.
Your hair catches the light—
did you know?
I never noticed
the halo around you,
how beautiful your ears are.
I want to touch you.
I want to lean
the wood against my elbows
and kiss your forehead.
How have I touched
anything like you?
Cup my eyes
and tell me
you love me.
Tell me you—
you're tired
and let me put you
to sleep.
Sit back,
restrained,
pink ribbons on my wrists—
you walk away.
Red poppies out the window,
white frames and
chipped glass.
Their heads fall
and lift
faster than my eyelids.
Can't I keep my eyes
from closing?
I thought I had that power,
or am I weaker
than my knees?
Tags and twine,
burlap.  Waste-pile.


It's been a while since I did a sleepy word-vomit thing.  I feel like I'm just running in the rut.  Stick with me?