Bone China

Sometimes in a deep, written sleep 
Your porcelain, written fingers snake 
Around the written woods of my mane 
And I wake to a galloping heart, 
A written pain in white streams converging 
Down my written throat and to the written ocean in my chest.

Sebastian Bieniek

Sometimes in a deep, written sleep 
It is my written fingers at the back of your neck 
The bridge of my nose against your clavicle 
Whispering lies to your written breasts 
In the smell of moss from a decade dead waterfall.

I wake to a quiet cold wanting to push 
My face into your ribs and hear them crack 
Like twigs underfoot; how does pain end, 
And when? Your lungs have depressed 
From holding up my head and your heart beats 
For the special occasion where we bring out 
The special china.

Like what you read? Give Sajid Ahsan Dipra a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.