my being is a graveyard that keeps on taking
and never forget
because the fabric of memory is not entirely the folds of the brain
or merely the skin souvenir scars.
it's broken bones and aching joints, too.
pooling of impulsive hair chops.
the piet mondrian wrists.
open veins - metacarpals quakes - dam floods, too.
fraying at the seams;
still, woven into, of yarnful snippy red threads,
a warm blanket for when the night pry the pretty parts
away from me.
your being remembers in more ways than one.
tombstone maps
phantom love and abuse
and all the negative spaces.
i want to remember
your being
infinitely in bustles of unimaginable warm colours with all that i am,
stretching the fabric of my memory,
beyond what i am.
