It’s dark out here.

Vines twist,

grab a hold of my toes.

Damp earth,

crumpled water,

There’s nowhere else to go.

How pretty I could feel,

if this path swallowed me whole.

How it would choke and splutter,

with a stone as heavy as I

  lodged in its throat.

It’s dark out here.

Mulched petals,

chiseled stones.

I feel at home.

It’s dark out here.

I’m fitting into place.

Spirits whistle through the trees,

singing songs of days deceased.

  raising the bones of memories like steam.

They dance with mirrors in ghostly dreams

and evaporate in beads

  of sweet saliva,

     that only rain in white,

       and rains

          and rains until the dark is bright.

It is dark out here

in this world.

We brush our skeletal homes through thistles,

brambles of thorns and forests of bristles,

   to look down and find our lovers hair

      Softened and soaked with blackened red,

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