Wood grains run down,
parallel, hand in hand,
rivulets racing,
chasing each other,
interweave, then separate
at the junction, at my elbow bend.

If only I could claw through iron,
and numb the anticipation of the fire,
I would let my pipelines burst
with a breathing color,
burning wood and water
all the same.

Exhaust my vocal cords
and veins.
I will keep
the stains like dragons,
cradled in my hands.

Morning shower,
in the molten lava,
scrubbing skin,
bask in a metal glow,
oil noisy joints, fix the broken bones,
I sit in the aftermath,
of the night before.

Bored.
Cold shoulders, twitch, ignored.
Eyes beg for closure,
to be dried out,
and undisturbed.