Melt

If today touched me with its paper hands

Wings of light, white walls

And shadow clocks

If it greets me like a familiar song

I used to hum

Lost pages of a notebook

Or words in a foreign language

I will come undone like a ball of wool

My grandmother used to fashion

Into sweaters.

And ache, like aged, cracking spines of books

Covered with dust and webs of memory

Creak in solemnity, like chairs of my family

Shy away like sparrows in their nests.

And wonder if today shades

Me like a bending tree

A vine to a wall

If it encloses its arms around me

Like a pomegranate shell.

Out on the streets, where

Every wound is open and

Every tale is old.

Where I trudge, with my

Bed of flames, my sea of lies

And stab the dark with my words

That do not touch you.

Frail words, bound by a shallow surface

As useless as a scar with no stories to tell.

So tell me you need my touch

As your candle burns slow

And your flame stands still

My embrace of bones draped in skin.