My skin has marks from when it molds itself into an hourglass;
My collarbones form its pulsing rim,
My feet,
Its illusionistic base that longs
For just one bead of sand
That falls through the hollow gaps in the bones of my fingers
My choices mock me;
"Who is this skeletal creature?" they say,
"With empty eyes
And lashes that cage the Sun?"
And I cannot answer;
I cannot answer not because I do not have an answer,
But because to unlace that silk ribbon,
To untether it from that brilliant paper of gold
That shields that unspeakable refute,
Is far too much for these nails of stone to govern;
I paint over my flaws
In the frame of my friends' little siblings
I try to protect them from the curse of perception;
To make them of this world,
And not yet another ancient cassette filled with petals and weeds that wishes to sing,
That wants to watch that old woman dance just one last time;
The lady that watches me from within the star
The only star that I see as our car floats under a void of thousands;
As my calluses kiss the keys on this hollow piano
I trace the thread tied to the birthmark on my knuckle
And it takes me outside;
I walk in its neverending company,
And as I place each bare foot in front of the other,
I tie a loose strand of my hair to the thread;
Once around my waist,
And then up to the twine;
These knots keep me secure,
I am bound in loose chains to nothing but my own corps;
I see lanterns hung in balconies;
Are they constrained by the same thread?
They cast shadows of warm light on crescent smiles
And on this path they seem to melt into the light of the street lamps that I have childishly gazed at for fourteen years,
Just as I melt into myself,
Creating yet another hourglass,
And another illusion