The Tinman

I was always overwhelmed
inside violent skies.
You came to me every time,
guiding me far,
far away from the land
from the sea
and into a decayed orbit
where we would live over and over again.

We made a kitchen
with pots and pans
from tattered metal rockets
and scraps of spaceships.

Nearly every day
you found me the final blade of grass,
turned it into an origami dove,
strung it between strands
of my hair and tied it around my finger...
Like the most raw emerald ring
that hummed soft promises -
so whole and complete
it made the very moon
look like a ball of cotton
about to fall out of an old pocket.

Our beds tucked into crevices
and intersected into rock walls.
Dust would gently rise
and settle like the rupture of sand
sitting on the ocean’s floor
after a manatee immerses.

We were weaving dust
to blankets when we noticed
how our bedroom began to pulse
like an organ,
the blood rolling in waves
under the floor.
Yet as rooms began
softening into flesh,
possessing lifeless memory,
the breathtaking rived orbit
we were made to inhibit
looked like the most fragile of dolls,
unable to keep pace
as our’s only quickened.

I loved you inside that place
where I learned what it is to follow.
To allow love is to watch a pitiful thing.
To uproot and assume
I replant easily where put
is a hard thing to watch.

In my dreams,
your boots are in the soil, untangled, releasing in the sweet summer air,
and still I recoil from mace -
with all the little moments
you pushed me away
that I can't erase.
Every moment over fueled with power.

We kiss and only now
do I see your mouth
like an ache
you never knew,
and it was right in front of you.

Author's Note

I welcome both comments and critiques (no crit can be too honest). I am also interested in being published.