skin serves the purpose of a shell
our bodies rise and fall
in this vicious
convexing and concaving
waxing and waning
cycle where our skin
seems to burn
seems to melt
becomes: one.
my thumb is like putty
washing into your skin
and oh the scars.
the light washes
sepia
over us
like a photograph,
capturing a forgotten memory
of lovers
from when war was fair.
i am the wondering
i am the wanderer
i am the forgotten
i am the framed,
then the frameless
yet,
i am not blameless
we were something beautiful
something in between
our lapses
like blackouts
help us tear ourselves apart
when we blend
together.