The air is cold, lungs grasp and strain, rapture and punishment - one and the same.
Saints are made relics, sinners a pyre, once a house of purity, a keepsake I desire. All your malice for me, poured into the sullen earth, the part that hates the most - the love that I deserve.
Your bones a memory that sinews long to cling, can't let go of the way you gave a home to my sin.
Your bones are mine.
released September 23, 2016
all rights reserved