Some wounds are like interrupted dreams,
The blood stain half-remembered,
Grief like the crusted sleep you rub from the corners of your eyes.
Your fingertips slip-sliding across a soaking back;
Throat clenching against the honeyed smell of clean hair and entrails;
A yowl, primal and hoarse, toward the bad moon rising.
And we’d turn to each other and say, “Haven’t you had this one before?”
Your eyelashes would flutter against your silver-kissed cheek,
And I’d command, “Go back to sleep”.
You’d say “You first”,
As if it were that easy,
As if this time would be different,
Simply because we wanted it to be.
But we both know weakness, and doubt,
And we both dealt with demons once.
We have faith in nothing but our own scars.
For you I would make no bargains.
The host of hell would come to me instead,
Their phalanxes casting long shadows on the moon.
Howling, they would offer me anything, anything,
To prevent the apocalypse I’d unleash.
And I’d close my eyes and whisper,
“I’ve had this one before.”
And before, and before, and before.
Time to wake up.