'Itch' 2017
Front Porch
Pain when her flame is smothered out.
She washes her hands, time and time,
But those hands hold me forever.
Stained with love.
Her skin slowly peeled back to reveal raw flesh,
The kind that has been bruised repeatedly.
It is black, charcoal,
Crumbling into a beautiful heap on the front porch.
Small hands desperately scoop evaporating dust,
Pressing each handful to breast, like she with me.
Each flake attempting to catch itself,
But slips between fingers.