A bruised bone not yet supped of its tender marrow
Is nothing more
Than a soul tethered to the material that conceived it,
Waiting for the moment it returns
To the mouth.
It’s a smiling frown staring stark into the night-tainted sky
Without noting the stars
You’ll never know me by name —
You’ll never know me by the initials carved into my veins;
You can only ever know the exhaling and the sighing you refuse to hear,
Breaths left behind in the dust motes hanging on the breeze,
Or morsels of marrow
Left cold on a chipped porcelain plate
Outside of your door.
*** Sometimes I don’t know how poetry works. ***