I don't want to tell you about how I can hear
the creeping glassedged cracks slipping into my soul-
besides the part where I'm sure you already know about them-
truth is, it's myself I didn't want to let remember what is already
the closest curve of my heart,
the piece of yours from the day we ripped and traded
my flesh to your flesh,
two skins collapsing to one like my cells and synapses
trace the smallest clue to a thought about you.

and my losspanic almost convinces me to believe
that the trace of you infecting each beat of blood in my veins
will gather silver and sharp to stream its way to my surface
forming rivers and moonbeam slices, crescents and curves
touching every known corner of me before slicing outwards,
and stealing my lungs to disperse to air,
will in a suddden exhalation open me to this cold winter,
skin brittle and mirrorcracked from inner exposure.
I don't want to tell you-