finamor

I saw the last kiss

crawl out of the wall,

wearing your shadow

and speaking in salt.

The clocks were all melting

inside of the rain,

the moon had no fingers

but pointed your name.

No one was leaving,

no one was there,

only our voices

undressing the air.

The bed was an ocean,

the room was a dove,

and God closed one eye

at the end of love.

The end of love,

the end of love,

a black little flower

in the mouth of the sun.

The end of love,

the end of love,

two empty angels

forgetting to run.

Your heart was a mirror

that learned how to bleed,

my hands were two churches

with nobody to need.

The stars became insects,

the sky became meat,

the city kept dreaming

with bones in its teeth.

I found your old laughter

asleep in a jar,

beside a dead planet

that thought it was Mars.

And it kept whispering,

cold, blue, and bright:

“Was love just a fever

inventing the night?”

The end of love,

the end of love,

a black little flower

in the mouth of the sun.

The end of love,

the end of love,

two empty angels

forgetting to run.

Then silence grew antlers,

then nothing had skin,

the universe opened—

and we were not in.