our figures are the same
stretched thin and pale

and i know my skin will wilt
so i touch yours like braille

“i can always find my way out”
you whisper in a playful vow

i dont know
if you’ll remember me
the lies that you told me
were memories

our wrinkles are the same
i’ve scoured so closely

i’ve seen the thought
light up your face
but the words have stone feet

can you find your way out
when walls have passed
to dust and clouds
and a monsoon’s rising?

death’s little whistle is tonedeaf.

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