Take My Hand and Lead Me Back to That Dead Hill

that burns like moonlight in October--
smoke escaping, fingers reaching to the hinges
of your door, to tell you stories that I told you
in that white dress I wore for you.
So I surrender these, my fragile hands against your face.
And make no mistake, these lips tell of storybook paintings,
where the baskets made of stone carry the children
to the sea. And your scars pushed onto mine as I bit my lip
until the teeth went through, and the cotton in my blood
turned to thread. I stitched a map onto your chest
because I swore you'd make it back. It's as when
I'm drowning in an hourglass, the sand filling up my lungs,
because of the time I took straight from your mouth,
a plague in itself divine. You kissed me hard enough
to shake awake the lightning rods above our heads,
as the rain came down enough to wash my lungs
and replace the air with an alternative--a baptism for my breath.
You lift your arms above your head to pull the pins
out from your wrists and legs, whispering
for the bedposts to let you go. And I curl my lip
to give you closure that your dream stayed in the raindrops.
So I'll lace my fingers with your shadows until your arms
hold me like you said they would.