the air, static with hesitation,
hovers around our bodies like crisp starched
nice enough for a funeral.
i am not
the taste of your tongue in my mouth
(wet sawdust and vinegar)
filling all my cracks and crevices and
the sky the same gray
as the whites of your eyes.
my eyes like moons,
craters a decade deep.
no evidence of life ever recorded.
will decompose concertos,
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.