Shadows

Why do they go out into blue veined fingers of the night,
Why do they die on errant wandering clouds traveling

They talk and they kiss,
They hold, their breath is warm, their skin catches fire in the hollows of my eyes,
But they go, silently into the gallery of dust, they scatter into the asphalt
And the leaves run in their blood as the wind carries their hearts,

They go,
They go,
To islands parked on the curb,
To ships whistling in the alleys,
To the fractured constellations,
Raining on my jacket, in jagged bits of dead flesh and stringy bits of hair,

They go,
As the phantoms they were, home ghosts grimy with comfort and strange uneasy peace in their talons, petty ghosts digging holes and burrowing for secret sugar trails behind the refrigerator,
Strange ghosts, smelling of the sea, covered in the bounty of groceries, smelling of trees in late monsoon, covered in the heap of laundry lists and glistening accounts,

The black oil bleeds on the floor, the morning soaks it up on its pink tongue, the amber light stuck on the ceiling is rich with wistful longing, former scars and the unease,

The breeze walks through, discussing parallel lives,
And watches them go,
The shadows of warmth dregs,
The shadows,
They go
They go.

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