the warm space between my shoulder blades welcomes your breath.

shedding scales that shine a soft, gray rain

peel off paint

and lick scabs

hot with irritation

infected with the day's dirt

flies floating round

perturbing your ankles

biting at the mess with no idea that they already suffer so much

but still on those burning, fleshy lacerations you chew and lick

and try to make clean with angry scrubbing

"cleansing," you say-

but my love, I beg to differ.

your gums are half gone from all the nervous chewing.

what started as a scrape from the rosebush-

branding you as you slid from your window,

sucking in different air, impervious to pollution and hard thoughts.

this is the kind that fills your lungs with belief only

when you are on the lam-

became fearful and despairing, and

made your shoulder raw.

the petals fell onto the drive way

and their lush, free scent was stolen by your mother

and their flesh bruised by your father.

besides,

you cannot trade one flakey shell for another and expect to feel the world.

try running, just once more.

one three in the morning, many times ago,

I found myself moving faster than I ever had

fervent crave

and no sense of time.

I pounded to the highway with nothing but and idea of what reality I would not take,

and took off,

a friend in hand.

a bid for freedom of passion

in whatever place hope dwelled proximal to a soul.

They believed that one kiss would unite their souls,

their spirits carried in their breath.

All of these beautiful things that I see,

I want to give each of them to you,

one by one,

every day,

until then.

and then.