Detroit is cold in the winter,

but still your skin retained heat.

Some hearth kindled itself underneath your tendons,

radiating outwards. When you took my hand

and pressed it against your heart,

my palm was burnt through your shirt.

The creases and stretch marks on your stomach and sides

bloomed quiet flowers of subtle poetry

which erupted from your armpits and belly button,

perfuming the air with soft harmonies.

You had sacrificed his body for art

and lost your strength completely.

When you turned towards the piano,

on your back I noticed bandages and cloth.

Irritated from the edges, they peeled away;

thorns from roses and cacti had pricked your skin.

Oh what bruises and fissures of flesh refuse to heal?

What scar tissue refuses to mend your sorrows?

With a razor blade, I patiently shaved your stubble,

sliding steel against cheek.

You remained still completely except for your neck,

which vibrated while you hummed something soft

and deeply melancholic, inspiring tears to cloud my vision.

What is that song you sing for the dead?

Your dreams sounded like plucked harp strings,

something beautiful that trembles deeply.

Sometimes while you sleep, I can hear you cry.

What is it that burdens your thoughts?

Maybe nightmares of Icarus flying too close to the sun, or

wings made of wax that melt like candles.

When Athens decided salt water useless,

Poseidon wept useless tears.

And when I began to weep, you weeped as well.

We weeped wishing wells and fountains

that could never quench the stomachs of a village.

We weeped waters of false hope and sodium

that stung our open wounds.

Should I tear my eyes out now? you had asked.

Should I tear my heart out now?