Something's going to blow,
the thorns on her rose-vine tattoo
cuts the secret into her back,
and her pulse thuds in her fingernails
tick-tock tick-tock.
The world is going to break,
the threads will turn to dust and
we will be crawling through the blue,
a little blind in both eyes,
just enough to turn the cats into sea-monsters
and the lovers into men with rusted hands
and heavy souls ready to rip and stand
in silence
– and yet, were we so very sure before?
So very certain of our misery,
of our trembling darknesses,
of the dreams for which our hearts twisted
further than our tongues,
and the realities that intertwined so
hard and fast that we had to sprint
to stay in the same place?
Perhaps not.