solisis

I miss her coiled black verns and her cheek brushed light with dirt. I miss her pale and rose soft flesh of stitch and hooks- a dream gone virtually motionless. A vine unravels, a move of her fingers to touch my chin and deaden my lips with a rapid rotted weed and leaves of steel. Her glass of lakes in eyes of grey, the skies fell to the mud, I froze. Her breath let fog of sirens blood and spilled my murdered heart onto the crushed glass floor and sticks turned black. My seasoned hands of knotted pine leak deep beneath her thrashed oak dress and through the dead grass covered graves into a dream, a lost one now, but once upon a time I mean. I miss her bones upon my bones. I miss her ears to scream into and hips to push and shoulders begging no more pain to melt into them lightly, hourly forever into one we became. Once upon a time, I mean. I miss her dust and veil of lace and gloves with no fingers and buckles up to her chin. Too much now I am charred of lost and nothing, gone. I bake here now beside no grave, my night turned sun and mist turned blank. A sick boy once now holds no illness, free from life he wastes. He missed his baronness of fire once upon a time, he misses his pain.