i keep forgetting

There is a saint in silver who sleeps on your clavicle, who screams
into my mouth that you are an angel and I am ripping off your wings
feather by feather, who
screams into my mouth that I don't fit underneath
your skin, that your veins are
too close together, that there are planets on the other side of your
skin cells, that there is no vacancy between your
lungs or behind your heart or amidst your muscles
for me and my mascara and my knuckles and my
doubt, who screams that I am a
pile of bones and disgrace and distance and wishful
thinking

I have had nightmares about this
before; I have pictured a giant band-aid with a human
stretched across it, pictured you becoming
familiar with earthquakes and ends of
civilizations, pictured you marveling over my
marrow and pictured the
saint sinking
into your skin and reverberating shouts
just above your sternum until
it is nothing but a
mute tremor, until it is nothing but a cavity which
I can just barely fill, until I rid my fists of all
your feathers and until you fly away



he has a necklace with saint michael which he gave to me. but i wrote about it before he gave me it.