P. H.

Weeks bleed together,
vehemently pulsating
the ashes of your name
on the crux of my tongue,
broken ribs invisible
against the shaded tremble
of cracks, ambling lopsided
through limbless memories.
Disjointed and spaceless,
yet carelessly eroding
time's hazy surfaces,
a casual nightmare
teetering on acidic secrets.
Dripping glue down the
realms of my caved throat,
swallowing the brightness shut,
willowed in the expanse of
my gaping chest-
bleaching it dry and
willing me to remember 
the slow bleed
of your name.