by Yea Jee Bae
This is the slow collapse of winding hours.
Station lights flicker on faces in chrome
while your life looks out from trains seeking home.
The rain follows you into the shower
and drapes the cold skin and bones it devours.
Knuckle your eyes, hook your mouth—your hands roam
over flesh like fists buried in dark loam:
your chest is spilling vines bared of flowers.
You cannot hear the silence in the streets—
white noise dwells in your head, echoes static.
The love you build out of scraps is too loud;
desperation beats on hearts nomadic.
Coax your need for warmth to back down discreet;
the line of your spine in bed curves too proud.