Sew your fortune on a string;

I think I could stop my heart if I thought about it long enough.

 I only want to warm you from the inside,
cradle your words,
your sad retellings,
and extract the malignancies
in your trembling voice
scatter those tender histories,
divulged under thin veil of night,
among the deader parts of winter
borrowing the lands first blossoms
and quiet markings of spring
to melt against your skin
and into your aching bones

Grand Finale.

In this unnatural stillness,
I want to
scratch, peel, tear

every particle of skin
that has ever touched your lips,
your sinewy limbs
And I need a pain like
bullet ripping tendon, flesh
to convince me your name
has left my ruined head
And perhaps the crowd will roughly close in
watch the secrets unfold, undress
And our hands will bare truths
they've not known yet
molded to some terrible creation.