he found caterpillars for gravel and pulled from his teeth the roots of a tree and when he brushed them aside stuck underneath his fingernails were the tracks of a scar he could not stop ripping. he asked her, “have i left you? have i left you beyond repair?”
and the sun had gone from orange to crimson, a horizon in the howl of a wolf beaten and she peeled the skin off her knees where the wound bled thick pearls made of silver atop ants of gold. she replied, “you left me blind, you licked all the color out of my eyes.”
he pried open the space between them and drew out molted lilacs and handfuls of sheared wool caked with blood. he sealed it all off with spit and coughing as the moon yawned the sky, “i’ve ruined you, you’ve destroyed me, we’re nameless without a home.”