Making Room

Wind Chime

Your heart sighs and scintillates like a wind chime,

its melody crawls up my spine, each vertebrae a rung.

Sometimes I imagine that you will give it to me,

ribs pushed back from the sternum like a little gate.

I would make room for it, even if it meant 

excising everything else. I would cut little windows into it

so that whenever you felt alone you could look out

and see my own heart blundering next door, 

carmine like lipstick pressed against a mirror.


I have eaten the flowers on the kitchen table

each petal pressed against my palate like a secret.

You will never find in another what you could have with me.

I weave your fetish into each aurora. One morning

I will wake up next to you our bodies tangled in ecstasy.


You are too beautiful to be corporeal.

Every time I close my eyes

it is your face I see poised in ether.

In your absence all things are negligent, negligible.

My fingers enter slight as a whisper,

into your interstices, into your myriad shades

rubbing my latent curiosity into a supple hunger.

Each night without premise or pretext

I fold quietly into myself searching for traces

of you within my cyclic bouts of delirium.

Somewhere there is a space large enough for us.