We

There is a sickness
in plotting goodbyes
that I've been refusing
for years—

the curling tongue
on the pearls of verbs

& proper nouns fading.

When a body vacates—

sending itself to stone
& leaving the miracles
to the next generation—

where does that leave
the left behind?

Burning with words
unspoken,
told only after passing
as they stare into
the blasphemous sun—

how dare it live
beyond your love—

or singeing self-made
lullabies into the
soft shell above their
clavicle?

When a life falls apart
who is left to pick apart
the ashes for talismans—

a heart-piercing bone

or scent on a forgotten pillow
that drills into a soul?

I do not want to know
the messiah or the ideals
of broken-backed men,

I'm looking for the stars
at noon
that spell out not salvation
but coping beyond the radio
& listening to the empty walls

for the ghosts of promises.