On a proper dose,
I’m blinking through the fogged windows,
having clarity when viewing the shapes of your arms
and the damage done by a scavenger’s talons.
Left scratched up in the far side of the ward,
there wasn’t a phone ringing.
Despondently turned towards the infinite blankness of white walls,
you brushed your fingers across my palm
and swore this had to be forgotten,
and if there were any vultures peaking under the door,
the story that’d come out would clip away your wings.
Shaking in an unstable state,
I felt I turned to paper in the plea you made,
softly resting on the tiles without a heart of gravity.
Peering through the spyglass of a drained capsule,
I saw you as the pen writing the narrative out;
two shattered bottles of ink embracing in the crash,
focusing thought to bring a solid out of a melting dream.
Yet in a flash that reflects back to me from the black,
a carnivore’s face is bursting through the hospital,
and his blazing eyes are locked into your stare.
Yet in a flash that reflects back to me as I tremble,
I spy ten thousand lies described on the shadows dwelling on my face.
We could trade our scars for a chance to pass the stars.
I’d tear and twist the fabric of our foes
to build the escape that’d see us careening out of step,
but so dangerously alike in the limp that plagues our wrists.
I couldn’t promise then if the door was wide enough.
I couldn’t promise then there’d be no letting go.
I couldn’t promise then and I can’t promise now,
but I’d wish more than anything to take you home.
Nurse the power left in those beating wings.
There’s a chance in space where spinning out is ever closer.
For this, I’d charge through debris with you,
further every mile away from the sway of a vulture’s preying.
On a proper dose,
I see the handle turning
as you take a plunge outside.
It was as if I never knew you.
( ❤ Mitch)