Watching the Moon Decide

I applied him my lips in dabs. Then blotted. Like lipstick. There were songs that were waiting on my press. In a thick rouge. Stubborn capillaries trying to survive the weather we bring upon them. And the intimidating sound of footsteps on naked plywood. Ghosts running through empty lives. As heaven stumbles after them.

I went back and forth. Trying to decide. Which cables to use. Every footfall a scream.

He wipeed me off.

Of his lips. Nothing left except the residue. Of empty shoes in the shdaow of the bed. Debating amongst themselves about the stench.

I apply the moments in sections. Tattoos biting deep. In failing fevers that leave me feeling more cheated than sick.

Lies abandoned on my doorstep wait for the day when they'll learn to walk.

He had his crutches all ready to go. But I'm still making mine.