Mouth open, to aid these breaths out
As I lay wounded on my back.
Broken limbs,
I crave your shelter here
Or some pine-winged tree, at least.
I'm getting used to disintegrating
into these covers, my love...
Though I saw the ceiling through watercolor
I seemed to blur the whole painting.
But you whiped it even further
across my face, into something new.
Your palms told of decisions made
and hearts collected into collage.
Measurements of broken hearts
and tales of making love
we found,
Tonight.
I left under your pillow,
Breathing dreams, to fill your hands.
The audacious promise of motherhood
will flower as velvet within the wind.
And I left you the smell of wood:
To dance upon your chest, and in your clothes.
And the structure of a home to abide in
instead of the mat, and the pine-winged tree.
With extra hands, I collected myself;
Gathering legs and fingertips
from your windowsill.
These pieces were nothing,
until we embroidered them to hide my wounds,
To heal, tonight.
And I'm getting used to creating buildings
upon these occupied covers, my love.
