two midnightwrites

You touch my heartbeats with your memories, the way they fall off your tongue and cling to the air, to my flesh hanging soft in the moonlight, drying on clotheslines, my soul still inside. I hope when I die my eyes will help someone see again and I can show them how beautiful people are, cover their kidneys with mine and feel the pure red of their bloodstream, how it feels so familiar, and my soul grows heavy with light.

Too many walls and not enough time to write all of them because the fingers in the sky are searching for each other, blind to my voice because I'm so far away I can't see the clouds anymore except the ones that I cough up from somewhere so deep inside I couldn't reach it until now, and I hope my breath condenses into snow so the roads will freeze into skating rinks where our sneakers will grow blades that never thought they could break skin, especially when it's so warm it can't shatter, not like my tongue when I try to scream and my sounds break apart on his teeth, fall back down my throat and clog my lungs with a stench that still stings my eyes when I dream. I can't concentrate on the words I wanted to say, only on hacking up blood that I hope is his so I can at least prove that I stole something, too.