you're empty.

For some strange reason,
the world of ethereal, frozen lattices
and of livid beauty
entrances me back to sleep
only minutes after I awake in the morning;
only seconds when I wake again at night.

The sound of my head against your walls
and the pulsing that bakes my insides golden
with my tongue in your mouth,
your hand up my shirt,
has somehow ceased to provoke a feeling.
The hair rippling, curling across my palm
has turned quickly to bird’s nest kindling
and the eyes that open sometimes to flash
brilliant oceanic scenes into my retinas
have turned to pools of plasma behind your lids.
Your skin is hot to touch
but brings no words to my bruising lips
when I watch it ash to black;
burning char and peeling away to
milk white bone, hollow as eggshells,
lungs black as coal,
and a heart encrusted in ice
growing colder still as the fire roars.

The shell I’ve found crumpled in my arms
is visible in any mirror, radioactive;
apparent under x-ray and dilutive in acid.
When staring straight ahead; however,
it is only singed letters which can be arranged
to spell the word “lies”
in seven different dialects.
It will dissolve completely with alcohol.

We all found our vices;
It just so happened
that you were born with yours
and taught me mine firsthand.
The moment you were born, the rings
around your eyes were to be symbols;
you’d be a scoundrel and a liar
but a lover all the same.
The moment I was born, the birthmark
like a noose; it bore a symbol;
I’d be a scoundrel and a lover
but a liar all the same.

Oh, cradling your body only makes me weaker
and my brittle bones will crack under the strain
of playing atlas; test tube baby, seek her
and bring me back a bottle with a name.