The Ghost Of Your Breasts

My past now grows impatient 
Under its tortoise shell
Eons passed and I have moved
Only a fingernail 
Closer to you

Much of my music is lost 
Listening to the wall clock 
Counting, sixty seconds and a minute 
Sixty minutes and an hour
Twelve hours, twice over,
Again and again
Through wind, winter and rain
This dilemma, delusion and pain
Of having met you
And loved you for a millennia 
But having no permanent memory 
No cup of your captured laughter
No mirror of your misty eyes
No sunlight captured by your tresses
No sweet scent of your sighs
All I am left with, are yellow pieces of fractured time
And a heart that mostly murmurs 
For all truths out aloud are lies

The blanket we wear
Smells like Sunday morning 
A waking warmth 
Of hay and honeysuckle 
And a quiet happiness 
Equally sad and empty
So we hold each other
From falling apart
From drifting into different dreamlands
Where one of us ends and the other starts

I watch as you breathe in
Life, my life 
For I am haunted
By the ghost of your breasts
Buried and hidden
A catacomb of our heartbeats 
Growing restless
Like a river ever running
But never reaching
The estuary of my arms

You see
I am obsessed 
With the idea of your existence 
Insanely infatuated 
So unequivocally infantile 
To see your warm womb
As the walls of my tomb 
And the pulse of your veins
Like all the seasons I have ever seen

I know, I know
I am mad to my bones
But my death is being alone
Without your hand in my own
So, I place myself in your hand like a petal
You drop me
I am cold
I am hard
I am metal
With nothing more to see
And nothing more to be
With nothing to call mine
And nothing is for free