one.
white-bleached sand
pouring slowly, slowly
through my fingertips
like her ever-elusive smile.
red lips, red sugar-
melt upon your tongue,
cause my throat to
swell, to close
and may the waves
wash my body away.

two.
balance. burning sun,
your glowing moon. the
lapping waves, reach!-
can you? meet my hand,
meet palm to palm,
and may the breeze
blow sweeter than your
lowest whispers. dig
my toes into the sand,
feel it pour through my
bones- and I refuse to move.

three.
bubbling soda sliding past
her teeth. her hands are
warm but her eyes are
cold; she is no one that
I know. phantom- may
those eyes be brown,
muddled grey? emerald,
hazel, ocean blue?
it wouldn’t make a difference
to me, I wouldn’t mind.
she is nothing, nothing
at all.

four.
fragrant tea, meant to
warm an aching chest,
the hollow between your
bones, the hollow between
our skin- and I love it all,
every inch and lack thereof,
reminds me what shall be-
your precious soul, neither
cold nor hollow, simply mine.
( the deepest, warmest
shade of cinnamon. )

five.
her blackened blood.
are you gone, Icara?
have your lungs filled
with sand? and might
your acceptance move
further as death draws
near? unwilling, unready,
and this smile does not
come easy- but I’ll hold
your hand as my blade
draws across your neck.

six.
walk through parted seas
into your embrace.
clear minds,
fresh blood,
and may the waves
wash my sin
away.

seven.
the sand slips through.

eight.
and we lie under the same moon.

nine.
stomach faces upwards,
vulnerable, exposed,
unguarded, and I will let
the tide draw salt across
my bare and papered skin.
her ghost murmurs, it
laughs- splayed fingers
across my ribs. I knew
one like her, this little
ghost. and she reminds
me so of the other.

ten.
we are bare, we are
vulnerable, exposed,
unguarded; may the sun
warm our skin. no mask,
my dear, will hide the truth,
or show you another face.
see, you and I are a lively
pair, and we know more
than anyone- that perfection
does not create itself;
it is the eyes instead
and the slowly changing
tides of time.

eleven.
red sugar, once more
cool upon my lips,
set fire to my veins.
your tongue is coated
with silvery chlorine
“so darling, might you
bring me back to life?”
do you deserve a
second chance, little
ghost? her love still
makes me
cold.

twelve.
lunar eclipse.
our night is one,
but the night is dark,
and I feel oh-so-alone.
my skin is thick
with silvery chlorine
“and darling, this might
be the end.”
do I deserve a second
chance, little love?
or is it not my fault
at all?

one.
the winds are dancing.

two.
and the sand sinks
beneath my feet.

three.
my little ghost
no longer dead-
thread, needle, pull me
apart- string shell by
shell by shell. love?
what mess are we in?
the pavement has worn
my feet raw, and the
current is stronger than
ever. ( it draws me nearer
and nearer to her )

four.
concrete, flush upon
my cheek. I refuse to
believe our moon is gone.
come daylight, come night,
and the changing tides,
I’ll cling fast to the floor, dig
my toes into the sand,
feel it pour through my
bones, and I refuse
to move. but the
current is stronger than
ever. ( it draws you further
and further from me )

five.
her phantom eyes
glow brighter, brighter-
the most haunting shade
of ivy, poison. mine are the
stormy sea, the pools
in which she’s come to
swim- she is the
summer’s fire, and if I
dare to calm her flames,
she shall be mine.
mine to claim.

six.
these hollow inches
comfort me, in the
strangest of ways.
like a child to the sea,
like a moth to a flame,
I am lost somewhere
between the dangers
and all that I could
claim. be mine again?
you enchant me.

seven.
they call it ‘merry’ for
a reason.

eight.
but the horses just
spin ‘round.

nine.
she is the object of
my darkest desire,
every story of lust,
every sunscreen kiss
and sunburnt touch
manifests itself in her
all. at. once. and
I hold on. ( splintering
driftwood slides beneath
my back- and the tips
of her fingers climb
my arms )

ten.
puzzles, love- spread
across the splintering
table. which piece are
you? which piece am I?
you- you complete me,
or do you not? sunscreen
kisses, and the company
of my own mind- have
you missed me, love?
( bees build their
nest in the lining of my
stomach. I am drunk
on their honey )

eleven.
tides come slow-
is she safe at
long last, my little
bird? her acceptance
is far, but the truth
draws near when the
blood in her cheeks
( black no more )
boils at the ring
of my laughter.
I? I am gone.

twelve.
tides come slow-
are we safe at
long last, little star?
warm cinnamon, a
skyline hue, and
you and I- every
word to grace a
poet’s tongue, every
note to fall from a
muse’s mouth-
even the sand
cannot measure,
even the changing
tides-

one.
our final summer has come and gone

two.
and we lie under the same sun.