Cemetery Lips

 

Do you turn a locket

in your fingertips? Gold

gilding forged from

the fires of your heart,

creating beauty from

burnt offerings.

Do you draw unlived

memories on your lips,

whispering to life secrets?

Do you breathe

crematorium sunsets

and silent prayers

to not be forgotten?

 

Do you weep

rivers of agony,

deep depths

that people perceive

as shallow? Do you conceive

thoughts, birthing

worlds that still

feel hollow?

 

And do you walk them worlds alone,

wishing that someone special would call?

 

And is there a face missing

from the photograph,

eyes that should be staring back,

but your voice

left this solitary space

with its bags

heavily packed. So

those ears never heard you

whisper that love was theirs,

If they'd just unpack their hearts

and open their arms in care.

 

Then whisper to me.

 

Sketch your soul

in doodle hearts,

draw for me

floating unicorns,

in fairytales

of your own form.

The colours don't have to conform,

nor stay in the lines,

let them bleed if they need.

Whatever your heart leaves is fine.

 

And I'll place it upon my wall,

to remind me that my own

cemetery lips are not

always so alone. And I'll be here,

forever to call, when your own lips

are gravestone cold.

 

And if a fever of the mind

holds you tight

I will hold you tighter, through

the darkness of night. I'll mop away

the fire in your brow. I'll feed

a whole ocean of love,

a spoonful at a time. I'll shine

a light on fear and show its just

a shadow of a cuddly bear,

and play soft songs

until your heart

beats as strong as mine.

 

And I'll turn a locket

in my fingertips.

Your face placed

next to my heart

and my lips will live

as bright as sunshine

and I'll gift the light to

make you feel divine.