To how much I have crossed
To inhale the vapor, before your eyes.
To offer you
The need to see
All pain that has created this
Crown of thorns, above me.

While vines drop your life
At every sweet grape,
Notice the wine that flows from wrists,
Bitter to the flavor
Of finality.

I have pulled off the leeches
Drunk from the serene,
Familiar
Warmth of a numbness
That never left.

On that exit of yours
To the door,
Towards the circus of decision
Among farewells and clown’s lips,
The stain follows along
To remain.

Porcelain skin,
Deep red to the petals
Over your weathering
Flesh, and frozen
Breath.