Broken h8

‘International Number’
the phone rings.
Each polyphonic note
piercing a pin prick hole
in the sheet of strength
stretched over my skin.
Separated by the sea
I can feign safety,
soaking in false security.
A broken finger
for every broken month,
and I am left with palms
to sink my crying eyes into.
The ashes
we kicked in each others eyes,
leaving only dust
for the two shattered silhouettes
to rise from.
Cutting away the past,
your hair falls to the floor,
and we look
to heal without hate,
from the nothing left behind.

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