Hymn


My veins are barrels of a gun,
glass barrels so easy
to shatter.
My teeth are made from iron and smoke,
scraping my lips raw as I sing...
I don't feel your fingertips on my cheekbones
like I used to
when I sang.
I still feel your name hum
in my throat full of power-lines,
my heart crisscrossed with
sidewalks and green lights.
I miss the roar of your laugh,
the feel of your asphalt hands
on my skin
when you whispered my name
in the topaz hours
before morning.
My eyes are bullet holes
in a porcelain canvas;
two potholes in a road,
trying to catch your smile
in the headlights.

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