The Bones of Us

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.

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