He will leave,
or I will leave
when the thaw comes,
when the sun freckles
and burns the bridge of my nose.
Until then, we are gargoyles,
perched on our cathedral couch
with noses cold and hands running,
our swollen cuticles stained yellow
with the ever expanding promise
to be better,
tomorrow.
Cold, stained-yellow cuticles. There's always tomorrow!
ReplyDeleteSome things are as inevitable as death..
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