____
____
one
____
You whisked me away
just as the bridge's precipice danced
under my bare feet.
//
//
I don't remember falling
into your arms. Only that I fell
too fast, too soon —
I expected Death's soft,
manicured hands
to raise me — yet, instead,
you —
//
//
you're hands bruised, stained
with oil and grease —
caught me.
//
//
My eyes opened
to your stolen oceans
//
of green and silver and the flood
flushing down
your cheeks —
//
//
//
— all that was left for me
to do
was to keep
breathing
//
with you.
____
____
two
____
There were shadows in our room
last night — no,
//
not the kind that dance
like black sky radiant beauties.
//
//
I remember jolting awake in fear, my nails
digging into my thighs
until tattooed snake skin
turned inky
crimson.
//
//
There was screaming.
//
//
//
//
I can't remember
if it was mine.
//
//
____
____
three
____
Don't be alarmed
this soft winter morning
when your stolen oceans flutter
open. I'm here.
I see you
looking into me
while I look right through you.
//
//
//
//
I'm sorry —
there is just too much
fear.
//
//
//
//
____
____
four
____
Always, I take four steps
back and stumble
from summer,
from spring, into winter,
into fall,
until finally I catch my reeling
self
and topple
//
//
forward.
//
//
Those four steps ahead
feel like the world
orbits
for me alone —
//
//
Then I realize:
the footprints I've stopped
inside
are my own.
//
//
____
____
five
____
My feet still itch as if cold
concrete bridges still scratch each sole —
— as if phantoms of ice
carve archways
out of skin.
//
//
//
I watch your hair fall
like dark chocolate whirlpools
pooling past raw shoulders, sore fingers
working to ease
my dry, aching soul.
//
//
//
You make the bedroom air smell
like lavender and clove —
books and bergamot —
— it feels like
home.
____
____
six
____
//
//
//
Will it ever stop?
I'm sorry —
//
there is just too much
//
//
air.
//
//
____
____
seven
____
I wrote a story for you last night.
//
//
A murder mystery where the victim
dies.
//
//
There are vampires
in cool cars, the kind you chronicle
as we hold each other
after midnight.
//
The plot twist?
//
//
//
//
the victim
survives.
//
//
//
//
//
//
//
About the Creator
Corvus
Corvus is a kaleidoscope of Gothic word-craft, stuck somewhere within the hurricanes of prose and poetry and wrung out on each page. Find more fragments of the love letter on their website, corvuslove.
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