China plates of shoulder blades and knuckles
So fragile now: a thin, cracked eggshell.
I press us closer together.
A slowing heartbeat eroding my chest cavity, friction on the arch of my ribs.
There are storms beneath my
Skin.
My magic? I cry thunder
And the rain and wind tear in my throat.
What
magic? Not when I needed, needed it most.
Push it away: the filthy grail.
Threads of spun sunlight tickle my cheek.
A howl, a chant is spilling from my lips
Still warm.
His eyes. Sea foam, sky froth: liquid love (and acceptance).
What do I tell them?
His limbs, like cold clay,
Slip
Away
And sprawl on the wet grass, like it is
Fit to house his bones.