he, the aether iv

dear you,  
i am writing from that juxtaposition, damnit.    
wholly unhinged with the nails torn from my wrists,   
more than two sheets to the gale   
{&} fluttering still like my pale roots pinch'd between   
your cruor stained fingers.   
mayhap you'd noticed if you looked away   
from the flames.   
i am loose inside my skin, goddamn you,   
a speck ov dust, a drift in the scattered beams gnawing thru the blinds.   
think i might... maybe... hate you...  
just a little.  
//  
   
{iii}   
 i lay crucified with you, in the violence, in the cataclysm;  
dead in our transgressions,   
inhaling that singularly male sound ov want.   
you made confession against my concave belly {&} drew your tongue thru   
the bloody runes that pulsed frantically above my breathlessness.  
   
{ii}  
in my lashes i   
weighed the paradoxes ov your leaden whispers, the softly spoken litanies... the irony ov your musings.   
you lay your cheek twixt the gravestones ov   
my hip bones,   
& prayed against the barren protrusions   
where you bury your dead.   
   
{i}   
the day turned its cheek, you murmur'd into  
ruptured skin,   
my bruised dignity.  
i wanted to strain the moment thru my fingers,   
examine the nuances,   
hold your joy in my palms.   
fleetingly.   
//