Shy away from a temple this morning,
I should have known better than to stay,
to always breathe in someone else,
resting against temperatures
made up by another's skin.

So I'll take this cure,
dream you up in order
to cool these fevers down,
the mark's already been made,
counted on and memorized.

All I need now is a sign,
a shudder or reluctant sigh,
a graceful aching finally pierced,
then my summer's said and done.

Winter's already stalking each border,
hands belonging to sirens now,
I've got to take care of my own first
when thorns slit through my steady grip,
I suppose it's no one's fault

When there may be nothing left to give,
but don't ever let it show,
don't whisper to a single soul otherwise
that this bedroom is my whole identity.

Yet I find it impossible to
shy away from brittle jealousy,
from where I know you have been.

I should have known better,
cleaning wings for who
already clipped mine,
and told to never let
the animal inside or out.

It stings down to the vein,
to every threadbare live wire
to know I lie this dormant,
that each day from here
will be a copy of a copy,
ink tracing where you once did.

But I've got to take
care of my own first,
even if I only have
myself to give.

I should know better
than to wait here alone,
with sore fingers and
this swelling heart.

But my hands are forever yours,
what I wear fuses us together
but inches towards a trigger,
because I belong to who
will never belong to me.

So I'll take this cure,
dream you up to share
the same precise pulse,
to be together and pull
you inside one more time.

Before thorns and a loaded
chamber finally sign off,
all I need now is a sign,
even if another identity
gracefully slips inside as I shy
away from the coming sirens.

The mark's already been made
and my skin is the last you'll know,
the last fever to sweep through
when I take care of my own first.