I think often

Of the way the

Blue of the sky

Blends perfectly into

Pink, just like a

Machine melts perfectly

Into you. Soft skin and

Bruises becomes plastic

Heartbeats, the world

So quiet in a bubble

Of sound. I wonder

If my love could be

Bled out in needles

With every prick of pain

That sparks your nerves,

Could be fed into your

Blood stream steady as

Mother's milk, and heal

What cannot be found.

A rubber tourniquet that

Pulls, pulls, pulls on

Gentle, swollen hands

That brushed my hair

And rubbed my forehead

And held my cold hands

With warmth that is empty

In your gently beating throat.

All I can do is smooth

Soft, unwashed hair from

A clammy face, wrenched in

Pain as it's pierced again.

I would stare out the window

In the back of your silver-grey car

And peer at the white castles

In a burnt blue sky, wondering

if they were messages telling

Me to hold my memory close.