whispering into conch shells
'here, have your ocean back'
a pinch of the skin and salt
kissing the rise of your cheeks.
I miss the days where I could
dismantle my mouth into
red ribbons and obsidian snowflakes -
nowadays a futile attempt at abstraction;
a coin for words spoiling a page;
purple waves in cautious fonts.
If one day the sun does not
rise in your world, reach up and
cut the cloth of night -
lest the curtain rise
and the blackness hover