The setting sun drinking ash in the clouds and a cold sweat

Let me unwind that for you, peel it slowly from your unsure limbs. Cough syrup painted on in those invented tribal patterns can't mean anything, it's not breaking tradition if you were never exposed to tradition. Those banners stick to unhealed flesh, knitting fabric to gore on skeletal arms. Those arms with no strength to lift, the fingers curl, unsure of how to grip. I held you with insincerity, we invented how to feel and agreed that it was true, two swans frozen to a lake. Fevers break and rise again, and I made some silly oceanic metaphor for it.
How predictable those scars turned pink and white, they accent the curvature of your bones. And when I look at them I think of open wounds and infections, a river of pus.
When my cartilage wears down and my teeth crack I think of you.

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