indigo bloodstain

for G



orphan at the end of an unfinished 
sentence,

I’m aching underneath blue 
sheets of rain

that followed me home


today,



I just want to play 
with you again, land my plane

along the blue runways of your precious


veins carrying poems to me on silver


platters, nothing else matters


today



but the pitter-patter of your


fingers trembling down my 


vertebrae, branding signet imprints


in the melted wax of my skin that lets you


in and in, enveloping all your letters and


tucking them into the blankets around


my heart’s cave—mistress of missives,


healing scores of missed connections


with a single kiss



and the important thing is this:


I just have to see you soon,


because I’m floating in this drifting space


of waiting room in the sky, and while pixel pillows


are dandy, it’s not the same as the candy


of your hand in mine, reminding me you’re 
not a dream—



If I should die tonight


it’s not too late 
to take me home


in the warmth of your car


under 3am stars


through sleepy bright highways


so far 


and away


to new jersey—



and if the blue dye of you


should get on my pink skin


as we play in the clouds


like overdrawn dolphins


who jumped so high


they thought they could fly


and couldn’t return


to the ocean,



then let’s invent a new color


and give it a name


because I know with this kiss


my life has just changed



and if the words on our tongues


erupt into songs


then come back home to my lips


where you belong—



and if the strands of our mind-skeins


are the new braids of Isis,


I’m starting to think


we’ll transcend any crisis…



… where have you been


all my life? hermit-sea-monk


of a thousand hands, each open-mudra


fist offering gifts—

what have I done


to deserve this? And when can I see you 


again? This waiting is pain—


I need to remind my eyes of your fading face


that time’s starting to erase—I’m hurting to


taste you, embrace you, not just


myspace you…



these city sidewalks feel too hard tonight


and the air under my umbrella’s too cold


without you here giggling, singing


The Police—replayed from my relayed head-meanderings


that morning, “everylittlethingshedoes


is magic, magic, magic—”



and it’s a big enough umbrella


for us both to end up getting wet


so I hope you’re ready-set


for this storm—
I’ve set a place for you here,


so come stay here, my dear


in the crook of my arm


where it’s soft and warm


(and we’ll make up the lyrics


as we go along)



© Sarah N. 2008