The Breathing Fog of May and the Insistence of Wednesday's Sun.

It's... irrelevant we're two stories, picture books rubbed raw and torn pages, he's ripped up the middle, down the lines of his face on the left and his right ear dangles over my toes when midnight falls, I watch him, inconspicuous, listen to my sleep. I'm breathing, I'm attacked by May and I used to know lavender beneath the fog, I used to know dawn, I blanketed myself with scratches and wrote love letters to April when I missed the rain... but now I write letters to him, hoping, somewhere, my handwriting can tattoo his skin. He... feels... sometimes, I think it's love, that's what he's termed this undiluted destruction of me and it's a shame I didn't stain him, it's a shame my blood doesn't laugh at him from his palms, it's a shame I don't crawl over him like fleas at midnight, biting, itching and tearing him to shreds... it's a shame I still make him smile. I know the shape of Tuesday evening, she turns sideways beneath the moon, and my thighs become blue with memories and reflections but I leave the window open to confuse tomorrow I crack the glass and pray I don't bleed, I... slice through sunlight, I'm tired and he's sleeping, his eyes are always closed.... and I whisper to Wednesday to steal his eyelashes, I cry to April to blow them to me and I promised, I promised Thursday I'd make these wishes.... but I don't know how to collect. He's ineffectual as long as I'm cold, he's problematic and I sweat, swatting at headlights and curling under blankets, I'm trying to fool myself but my eyes don't close... and I've spit on last January, indignant in her youth, she'll never hear the screaming pain of forgiveness... and my mouth won't close, my teeth won't crash and creek and grind him down... not this close to May, anyway, not this close to Wednesday.