My lover’s eyes are black as the night,
as the dried blood of history when we turn out the lights.
I never pretended to know wrong from right.
I knew the masses of the blind feared the few who had sight.
I made this bed on a burial ground,
afraid for the guest who dared look around.
I was born with a silver knife
in my trembling hand my whole life.
No one will take it, and I can’t put it down.
My lover’s eyes silent as the rain
in a photograph that you can hear all the same.
I never pretended to not know the pain.
But tail me or pass me I stay in my lane.
I made this bed on a burial ground,
afraid for the guest who dared look around.
I was born with a silver knife
in my trembling hand my whole life.
No one will take it, and I can’t put it down.
My lover’s eyes are crowns that don’t fit.
They are impossible knots in the ribbons on the gift.
She is the tide, and I simply drift
and wait for the when to sink under the if.
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