The Visitor
She came to visit me last night,
lips cracked, knuckles bleeding.
She's off again, trembling with want.
She's come to light a fire, come to steal my light.
Her fingers find their way around my neck
I watch the colors dance under my skin,
a flock of violet blue nests on my bones.
Hands of rust and throats of sand.
It was not love, but it was the best we could do.
This poem is about:
Our world