I’ve seen you
in strips of black and gray
lunar cloak;
a grunge-gothic disarray
of savage hairstrands
from above
a sad, spying eye
and words cutting through the haze…
soft spoken syllables
that die gently
telling me about a hole in the moon
so vast
it covered
the whole of the universe…
it’s void expanding and contracting
till it pressurized
and starts dripping blood…
staining vagabond eyes fixed on a nightsky…
“..a gaping wound that feds on emptiness, like
this cloud of blood in your head..” you said
in a sweet repose of fingers,
licking it’s freely dripping blood and flesh
You never told me you had a gun.