I count the bones of us
as the white moon
sets over ash.
I run them through
my fingers
yours, I think,
mine.
I wait for the bones
to sleep,
disappear,
crumble
into powder.
But they are solid and rough,
sandpaper against my fingers.
Almost-whispered groans
speak answers that
I don’t understand.
The rising moon catches
the white,
I turn them in my hands.
I was a match, and you slate.
What blew our spark so wild?
I hold the bones,
sandpaper against my heart,
waiting for you
to claim them.