What a thing to say

Language mourns it's impotence
but with hands lubricated by a weeping bow
It still rubs

it still tries to describe how
her nails had bloomed the same shade as bruised ink
lips a richer tone of glacé
how she adorned a purple dress
sewn with the silky richness of silhouettes
and boots that let her walk
into words in bold letters
that beg to be stabbed into skin

puppets dangle from more than one string
which ones pull is more persuasive?

the one of eyes
that dreams won't waste their wishes on hoping for
the kind that chases feckless hope from all they snare
with the warmth of caramel
like burning logs on a wintry night
and flecks of purple and green
braided through like woven steel
the way doorknobs hint at waiting fires

shadows lurking in her hair
threw a line to the satin draped in the crease of her
in a way that untied the knots in my chest

but those eyes
that was a gaze made to raze every furrowed field
one that raptors see and curse the blindness of their fate for it's inability to ladle ice


and her voice
poured over me
like cocoa brewed inside the sun
infused with the bones of worlds
it cut my strings and healed the frayed edges
it was a cushion for falling knees
a soft towel for dripping tears
and all it said
was
goodbye