the veins that wind between your
knuckles and
twist across
your wounded hands
are the ligaments
threading my tongue
to yours;
puncture wounds across
fingertips,
trackmarks up
our arms
into
our hearts.
will we survive,
will this suffice?
alienating the irreverent,
wading through
the sickest of intent,
i hope we find the thread
that will sew our eyes
shut.











