your face in the morning,
rising into an evening of shredded song.
if I dare touch a fountain pen, dark words
fly out, iridescent black feathers
drifting down to lodge in my hair
where last night's sunset is still sleeping.
you remember a mirror image, I know.
you see silver-sharp and frail
when I am bone and ink and ember.
I am all of these, steel and amber,
shimmering oil on restless water, pushing impatient
at the struck match burning so slowly
toward your long fingers. I can let
the past reel out behind us like copper wire. I will not forget,
but I can still breathe you in,
old words tattooed in crimson
stitched into my skin.
Written for Marian's musical prompt at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.