One could be it, but empty of blood.
One leaking color, rosey or dull.
The crash comes, colliding our currents,
together they attack, divide, sing;
but in the day or night,
man alone equals movement.

I hear everyone
speaking all at once,
few words, many accusations
and disappointments.

How could I forget?
To know
one can move
and feel
I clasp my hands,
praying either
the memory
or the sand
will stick.

My hands dig into your tissue;
I feel the meat of you. I pinch
the vein to stop the blood before
it gushes out, like your hate for
indifference. I press my fingers
further, my hand nearly enveloped
by your tender skin.
I search the camera bag for the bullet
like rolling the camera film, its
substance, its canvas; and I think
I am only pulling out a negative
that has developed into a bullet.
Once it is done, I fix the print
into a solemn, oily picture and have it framed
for the wake. Sleep peacefully, the pain
is gone.