a quarter fist full of grief.

lover-

(lover is a loose term,
looser than the women you lose you nights to.
i have come to loathe those nights.)

a pavement grows between my ring finger
and your thumb,
as if we are retracing our steps
back and forth between our miscalculations

watching as the the curtains freeze
into something colder than a dried oasis,
on mornings when
there are dust specks near the windows
blinking in and out of continuity;

you’re always closer
when i’m half hanging at the doors-
lost,
when the clouds swallow themselves though.

an entire evening wraps her legs
around your waist,
but you only care enough to see
luna wried into a snowflake
between my teeth-

half struggling for breath,
and half struggling for the high that comes with being
breathless.

you’re slowly forgetting
the urge that made you paint the bones under our skins
with the liquid apathy the sky bled out;
and you’re slowly forsaking
the simple art of
being-
for the sake of
studying as the organs under our exposed skeletons
die.

lover-

i pull you out of our polaroids-
and you stop at that year
when everything just feigned to
be.

••ra’ahe khayat

 

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24 thoughts on “a quarter fist full of grief.

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