slate.

we are of the same delicate

and brazen soul

hatched on this plane, assigned 

to wander the landscape as

silhouettes before dawn 

longing for more

we are lost and asked 

to be found 

and you smell like perfect

harmony, the chords 

you hum bind me to your bed

return me to that 

Monday, every day

I still cannot bring myself 

to wash my clothes 

I can see you clearly

pleading to be 

healed, begging to be 

heard, though shaman 

to shaman, you must

know already the rituals

and stereotypes we 

supplant, yet

I am still on the other side  

it is not by chance, or 

happenstance that we stood

hovering above time a 

soundtrack already chosen

if you would just open 

your hands to let me in