A vulture onto her cheekbones carved by the
Sleep-skilled hand of her friends taught by
Sleepy old people in cottages, crafting
Every second of their life another bulimiac
Out of clay that had broken off of rocks held
And crushed by their forefathers’ skilled hands
Into powder that could be moulded and churned:
Powder that would be puppets on a stage they set up themselves.
Her eyes were emeralds crafted by pressure under
Layers of earth, burning lava that had been cooled
Because it was forced into cracks by laws of physics:
Laws of patriarchy.
His eyes were frozen lakes in a lacklustre winter:
Glassy and iced over with translucent paper
That flew away in ashes like midnight bats
When the dungeons of her eyes let out its
Dragons that spewed fire over his soul:
Fire that spread like honey.
Their eyes were never caught in embrace,
They skirted around each other like shy lovers:
They were veiled by a silken cloth that was spun
With “hush,” “not here,” “don’t speak like that,”
And neither could she erase his crosshairs
Nor could he nourish her skin for veils are
Of an impermeable nature,
So they tore through the veil.
Each thread one by one. They set fire to the edges.
They poked holes through it until finally,
He saw her eyes.