Knuckles

pale face crumbles as it hits your shoulder,
a chalky landslide of porcelain features
smash with the force of breaking bones
into my fragile heart.

Spider kissing your neck sneers
as blind as the rest, your blue eyes,
and the dagger in your throat sticks
like the words choked in my own.

Hold fast.
Herons fly straight in the evening sky,
never looking back to witness
the inevitable death of the sun.

And when the moon moths appear,
your only down fall will be
that your heart's not yet inked in my
woodland.