90 The Meadow Tyrone Gina Stratos Because you are metal, sharp gravel in your throat, no soft edges, so I thought Because our love is bruised fruit – imperfect and damaged but still good enough to eat When I hold my two fingers to my head, pull the trigger you understand, yes, indeed Remember all of the little deaths we shared And your eyes are the color of my mother’s, and the weight of you feels like home Can I tell you how I hope you dream of me, think of the storm in my kiss? You don’t, and you won’t but I’ll take you anyway You, the tongue lodged in the quicksand of my throat when I need to be speechless And with you, I don’t need to say a word
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