/ by Caleb Blansett

and so we wrote a love
song for nothing
gave it our

but nothing said nothing
and nothing was said
for that was altogether
too much

while the prince of thorns licked
-with a tongue like a rasp-
our hearts into nothing

while the mother stitched
-with fingers like a metronome-
our names into history

so these scars might heal
but not now
but not now

only yesteryear, 
once nothing starves and begs
for a caress as warm as time