In a world apart from this, there is a place
where we lay what the heart holds on the surface
of our skin. Some battered. Some made of glass. The
undersides of our palms coated in stories that we believed
could never breach. There is a sanctity
in our human skin, how it contains every oil spill that leaks
into our blood. We are uncharted mine fields. Glass that keeps
breaking. Seven years of bad luck over and over
again until all we have is eternal damnation. A girl drops her underwear
around her ankles and a sorrow falls through. A man cries
into the morning paper and all you find is a paper angel in the shape
of his young daughter. You can no longer read the obituaries without
falling in love with death. You can no longer look up without seeing
the skin that the moon shed and left, pale, and waxy, in the
In a world apart form this one, people are even more afraid to touch.
You shake another person’s hand and a story leaks through. You
fall in love and your cheeks blooms a flower shop.
There are broken hearts scattered throughout the streets and every night
before dawn, the street sweepers come and push them all into
Here, we run our atoms together until there is an explosion of light.
Our mouths eddy together and we see what colors we can create between us.
You are blue in flames. I am the echo of a siren — the red
that hangs in the sky long after its dead.
This is a rose window we can hang between us
to let enough light in to illuminate
all of our prayers.
When we first made love,
we created a mosaic.
– Shinji Moon