East Of The Wall Handshake In Your Mouth
The distant mock of warmth: an aftertaste of the bodies’
greeting collision. You’ll never feel that again.
I thought I saw a rising tide dissolving the streets, and
leaving blank shores. I strained to hear the distant
waves encroaching, eroding wood and home.
I can’t recall the sound of footsteps, the scent of skin.
It washed away with the taste of ashes. I grind my teeth
but it’s gone.
As we walk, we’ll pass through the last of night, sick
with dust and smiles. The mock of warmth: you’ll never
feel that again.
