‘quiescent’

a draw between lips, a capture within lungs. i fear this air may be no good for me. it tastes of what you took and what i gave and already repeats. there’s a stirring come november, a chromatic death dust around my tongue and i can count all our late-night conversations spiraling slowly, slowly in the wind. why are you not here to pull snug against my neck? there’s a bite to the sky nastier than the instance you snapped i don’t love you the same way anymore so now near feral things i curl my fingers into palms. around town the ghosts are packed in safekeeping till another season and yet i’m kept in the open like the lazy neighbor who never takes a holiday down. i’m worn from wearing masks and lighting lights so hollow hope won’t seem so dim. leaves twist around my feet like the dry tornado rips my throat. it's best i go back in, take off my coat and drink to the arms outside my window that once bore living things. 

quiescent:

 being at rest; quiet

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© Joseph A. Pinto

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Poetry served raw and unedited from the moment crafted.

The large majority of my poetry handcrafted from inside bars.

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